Blind Support for Sherlock Holmes
by AtalierOfTheMind
Summary: Rating for violence. John experiences temporary loss of hearing and sight after getting in close combat with a series of suicidebombers, and even after regaining his hearing he heavily rely on Sherlock's help to survive the simplest everyday tasks until he regains his sight. And then there's a madman to catch. This will be interesting. Fluffy Johnlock. Multichapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Blind Support for Sherlock Holmes**

**Chapter 1**

John followed Sherlock, who quickly strode out the crime scene.  
"Well, that was quick," noted John.  
"As always," Sherlock smirked. John had barely had time to hear Sherlock's ideas and conclusions, and all he really remembered was a young victim in an expensive and modern flat in the middle of London. Where were they exactly? John wasn't even sure.

"Cap?" John asked.  
"Yes, but let's get out of this mess first, shall we?" Sherlock motioned towards the unusual amount of police cars, police officers and journalist covering the area outside the crime scene.

"Let's."

John excused both of them while Sherlock shoved everyone out of his way, not even looking back. John kept a cautious eye on the journalist, already clicking away on their damned cameras. He really wished Sherlock would behave in front of them, just once in a while. John tried his best to ignore the blinking lights, seeming much lighter now that the sun had gone down what seemed like hours ago. It was hard though, and John made sure he kept a straight face when walking past them.

"Sherlock, not so fast!" he called, having walked slower than him, apologizing to everyone he rambled into. 'I'm to nice for my own good', John thought, sighing.

Mildly surprised that Sherlock actually stopped, John smiled at him. His face went blank, however, when he caught sight of something.  
"John?" John did not respond. He stared. He stared at a man, standing but a few meters from the crowd of journalist. He wore a big jacket, too warm for tonight's weather. John noticed him, because he had caught a glimpse of what was underneath the jacket. It was only a glimpse, but it was enough. John got eye contact with the man, a devilish grin spreading on his face.

John reacted before he could think, fisting Sherlock's coat and shoving him to the side. Sherlock slammed into the nearest police car and John jumped to him, shielding him with his own body. And deafening 'boom' surrounded them in the next moment. John faintly heard Sherlock surprised yelp just above his ear somewhere. John was pushed violently into Sherlock and the car, all air was stolen from him and he grunted in pain from the shockwaves blow. What felt like hours, but must have been minutes, John opened his eyes. He found himself sitting half on Sherlock's legs, half on the ground, facing Sherlock.  
"John! John, speak to me, are you alright?" Sherlock asked. John's head was aching and throbbing unpleasantly.

"I think- I guess so…" he tried. He was still clutching Sherlock's coat, holding it in a tight iron grip. Just as he let it go, he grimaced when he felt pain spreading in his shoulder, moving his arm. "Mmphf!"

"John? What is it? What happened?" Sherlock sounded surprisingly worried.

"I'm- it's just my shoulder, don't worry. Are you okay?" John looked over Sherlock's face and body. No blood. Good.

"I'm- yes! Yes, I'm fine, great- now let me see!" He gently moved John of his legs and turned John so that he could see his back. "Splinter from the explosion- you'll be fine."

"Told you so."  
"Don't." Sherlock sounded shocked, though he would of course never admit such thing. "Don't talk. We're getting out of here."

John found himself in the flat by what seemed like the power of magic. He only faintly remembered sitting in a cap, surrounded by Sherlock and his voice. He felt the soft cushions of their couch and only then noticing his shaking hands.  
"What's going on?" he asked, as if he had just woken up from sleeping. Sherlock stood in the kitchen and turned when he heard John speak. He quickly strode to stand by John. He handed him a cup of steaming hot tea.

"You're in shock. I think." Sherlock adds with hesitation.

"Oh, well, great." Sherlock kneeled in front of John, remaining silent for a moment. John would maybe have thought it odd, seeing Sherlock in front of him like this, staring intently at him, but right at the moment he had a hard time concentrating on anything.

"John," Sherlock spoke softly, "did you encounter bombs in Afghanistan?"

John huffed, "Of course I did."

"Personally?"  
John was silent for a moment, struck by a long line of memories.  
"…Yes."

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"What did you see?"  
"What?" John looked into Sherlock's eyes after having dropped them to stare into the steam from his tea.

"What did you see? On the street? How did you know?" Sherlock looked tense, hair impossible more messy and curly than ever and a fine layer of dust covering his face and coat. He has mud on his cheek, and John had to resist the urge to lick his thumb and remove it.

"I-uh- a man."  
"A man, do you remember his face?"

"Not-uh… He was smiling."  
"Smiling?"  
"Yes, and he…" John trailed of.  
"What John? What is it?" Sherlock inquired.

"He was strapped in explosives, Sherlock, just like-"  
"-you," Sherlock finished. His eyes were beaming, like they always do when his crazy mind is spinning, but he looked befuddled as well. "The same way-?"  
"Yes. I'm sure."  
Sherlock only nodded. "Copycat."  
"Copycat?" John asked confused. "But I just said-"  
"Yes, what you _saw_ all matched Moriarty's methods, but you said the bomber was _smiling_. Obviously he must have know of the heavy explosives around his waist, and so he must have either set of the bomb himself or known it would happen."  
"A suicide bomber…"

"Yes, that as well, but more importantly a copycat." Sherlock continued. John gasped when he unconsciously tipped his teacup so that the hot fluid spilled on his thigh. He breathed heavily as Sherlock snatched the cup from him and put it on the coffee table. He left and quickly returned with a cloth soaked in cold water.

"We'll figure out the rest later, tomorrow if necessary," Sherlock said, his word hardly above a whisper. John took the cloth and hastily pressed it to the burned spot.

"Thank you," he mumbled, "Why don't you just go? Alone, I mean."  
Sherlock looked at him incredulously, "Of course not. I don't go anywhere without you, John."

John snorted. "I'm staying. I'll be watching over you," Sherlock stated simply.

"Since when have you become the doctor?" John said, praying he wasn't blushing.

Sherlock smiled and gave John his tea back. "Don't drop it again."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock stopped in his tracks as he walked to the door to hang his coat near it, turning to face John.

"The man. He blew himself up."  
"Yes."  
"Does this mean…" he nodded weakly down his body. Sherlock stayed silent for a moment. Then he was by John's side again, snatched his tea once more, and removed his jacket without much trouble. John just moved his arms around a bit, to help, closing his eyes when he saw what it looked like. Unidentifiable dark… _things_ were stuck on the back of his beige coat. He groaned, "That's- ugh. I think Lestrade would like that for evidence."  
"He most likely does. However I don't think that he'll be needing it, seeing that there was so much DNA on the scene anyway."  
"Sherlock-"  
"Don't worry, I'll give it to him."  
"No, Sherlock, were there any casualties?"  
Sherlock threw the jacket somewhere over his shoulder, "You mean besides the bomber? I don't know. I don't believe so."  
John sighed in relief, "Okay, good, that's good. I'm going to lay down, for a while, okay?" Sherlock nodded, keeping eye contact with John. "Please stop deducing me?"  
"Sorry, I was merely making sure you were healthy enough to stay hom-"  
"I'm not going to the hospital so just be quiet, or play some violin, or whatever." John said as he lay down on the couch. Sherlock smirked, "I believe I have a bad influence on you, good Doctor."  
"Yes, well, surprise-surprise!" John mumbled as he laid one arm over his eyes and sighed tiredly. Sherlock just stood, fetched his violin and began playing a nice lulling piece, waiting for John to fall asleep.

When John woke up, it was early next morning. Sherlock was not surprisingly awake. "Morning, John." Sherlock greeted him.

"Hmm. Morning," John yawned and stretched, halting the movement when he felt his aching shoulder. "Bloody-"

Sherlock looked up at him, watching him from behind the screen of his laptop- his _own_ laptop for once. "All right?"  
"Yes, fine, fine." John grimaced but didn't make a sound. Sherlock frowned but kept quiet as well. "Are we going to meet Lestrade? Today I mean?"  
"Yes. He texted me just moments ago, saying we should meet him as soon as we could."

Sherlock made no move to leave.  
"So? Are we going then?"  
"Are you ready? Don't you want a shower first? I think Lestrade would appreciate it."

"I… Yes. Yes, of course. I'll hurry."  
Sherlock smiled as John got up and headed for the shower. John thanked his years of experience with blood and gore for keeping him from gagging from the things he found in his hair and on his clothing. He tried not to think too much about it, and quickly filled his senses with the fruity smell of shampoo. When clean, dried and dressed, he hurriedly stuffed himself with a piece of toast and a glass of water and met Sherlock in the sitting room.

"Ready," he declared.

"Good!" Sherlock stood promptly and lead the way downstairs. John followed noting Mrs Hudson's locked door on the way down. "Mrs Hudson?"  
"Out of town, visiting a friend as I recall it."

"Oh, I see," John stopped at the last step of the staircase.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, hearing his footsteps stop behind him.

"I forgot my jacket, I'll just go get one – one moment," He turned around and walked back up the stairs.

"I'll get a cap!" Sherlock yelled after him.

"Yes, do that!" John reached the sitting room as he heard Sherlock enter the street. He quickly turned around and headed for his own room as he saw the bloodied jacket on the floor. He only sighed over the fact that Sherlock –of course- hadn't brought it with him to give Lestrade. He reached his room and scanned it for a new jacket. He spotted one underneath his bed and rushed to get it. When he reached the door, however, he froze. Sherlock was outside, waiting, and Mrs Hudson was not in. Then who made that cracking noise on the staircase? John tried to deduce the situation like Sherlock would have. Or like he though Sherlock would have. No one was invited to the flat, and they were on their way to see Lestrade, so surely he wouldn't be here now? And Sherlock was right outside the front door- he would have noticed someone entering the flat. Therefore, whoever was creeping up the stairs must have sneaked in somehow. Whoever it was, was not welcome - unless of course Sherlock had gotten impatient and was coming to drag John along.

John cautiously leaned forward to peek down the staircase, when a pair of enormous rough hands grabbed him by his new jacket and pulled him, with a great strength, over the railing of the staircase and shoved him down the stairs. He fell, crashed against the stairs and tumbled down. He grunted in surprise and pain, trying to shield his face with his arm, still rolling down. He stilled himself, throwing an arm to the side and halting his body, he looked up at his assailant, just in time to notice a great belt of explosives around his waist. The man grinned and led a hand to the belt.  
"NO, WAIT!" John yelled, but the maniac had already done the deed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Blind Support for Sherlock Holmes**

**Chapter 2**

John only had the staircase between himself and the bomber when a bright light flashed before his eyes followed a loud bang and a blast suddenly overpowered all his senses. He closed his eyes at some point, everything going suddenly dark, and shielded his face once again with his arm.

His ears were ringing painfully when he heard Sherlock's loud yells. He was screaming his name, shocked, panicked even. John wanted to calm him, let him know he was alive, but he could hardly make a sound. John opened his eyes, hoping to find Sherlock close by so that he could wave at him. He gasped in surprise and fright when he saw nothing. He tried blinking, but everything was just as black as before. Then suddenly hands were on him and he tried to pull away. He struggled with the hands that had captured his wrist, gasping for air and struggling with his thundering heartbeat. His ability to hear anything had completely left by now, and was replaced by a loud high-pitched noise. 'Tinnitus', John noted. Then the strong hands brought his palms to meet a cold object. A face. John only struggled weakly against the grip on his wrist while he carefully let his fingers search over it, and when he met soft curls on the top of it, he sighed in relief.  
"Sherlock," he whispered. He was afraid if he spoke too loud he would startle him, not really sure of the volume of his own voice now that he could hardly hear himself speak. A hand on his face encouraged him to open his eyes, which he had clenched shut.

"I can't." John whispered, "The blast-" he opened his eyes wide, a natural reaction to when you can't see. Sort of like you do when it's really dark.

John was yet too shocked and confused by everything that just happened to consider if they were safe at their current location. The grip in his wrists loosened and an arm was hooked around his own, guiding him to a standing position. John simply followed the best he could. Cold air hit his face, and he gasped, sucking the air in. He realized he had felt nauseous, but the feeling now subsided because of the fresh air. He held a hand to his ear when a particularly harsh throb of pain his it, and he could feel Sherlock turn around to face him.

When the throbbing finally lessened John felt his hearing coming back to him. At first he heard Sherlock's voice as if he was really far away, or as if there was a wall between them. But it quickly escalated to being Sherlock almost yelling him right in the face, the sound of police cars, screaming pedestrians and cars honking.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, shut up, I can hear you!" Sherlock stopped immediately.

"Can you hear me?" Sherlock's voice had faded into almost nothing, and John swore he sounded like he was about to cry. But he must have been imagining it.  
"That's what I just said!" John tried to sound annoyed, angry or somehow healthy enough to snap at Sherlock, but failed. His voice was small and breathy and only just audible. He heard Sherlock sigh in relief.

"Is- are you okay? Where are- are we outside?" John rambled, not really sure about what was going on around him. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's jacket- when did he even grab him? – and stood completely still as he heard heavy footsteps storming towards him.

"I'm fine, John, we're just outside the flat, on the other side of the street" Sherlock seemed to move his upper body, John guessed he was looking around, and the added "Police is approaching from all sides. I suppose they think they're 'controlling' the situation, though there's not much to control anymore. There's an ambulance on its way."

John felt Sherlock's body jerk in short quick movements.

"What is it?" John asked, almost afraid he was fighting something off, no matter how illogical it might sound.

"I'm only waving at Lestrade. He seems to be looking for us. Also, the ambulance is within hearing distance. You can hear it, right?" Sherlock actually seemed concerned there at the end. It still confused John. Was he bleeding out his ears or something? Was it really that bad? It occurred to him he had no idea how bad he looked- considering he was still utterly and completely _blind_.

"…No. Not yet I can't," he admitted. "Is Lestrade coming?"

"Right here John?" Lestrade's voice appeared _right_ beside him, and John jumped violently, bumping into Sherlock who caught him by his unharmed shoulder.

"Whoa! Sorry, didn't mean to startle you! How did you not see me?" Greg said quickly. John imagined him throwing up his hands in surrender.

Sherlock answered before John had even pulled himself together after the innocent but great scare. "Temporary blindness. His hearing has been somewhat damaged as well. It will wear off soon enough."

"Good God, but it will, though, right? Go away I mean?" Greg asked uncertainty. Suddenly the piercing sound of an ambulance had John clasp a hand on his one ear, and Sherlock replied quickly: "Yes, his hearing seems to be getting better by the moment. The ambulance is here now. Let's go John."

John simply nodded, eyes still painfully wide and unseeing. He immediately feared bumping into countless police officers on the way to the ambulance, however long it may be, having Sherlock as his guide. But Sherlock seemed to either read his mind, or he might have had that look on his face he gets when he's almost solved a particularly mysterious crime that makes everyone run for their life when he gets near. Either way, John didn't crash into anyone or anything. The short walk made him aware of his weak legs, shaking all the way to now silent ambulance.

Being a doctor, John though he would have a better idea of what the hell was going on in that infuriating vehicle on the way to Bart's. But his hearing came and went randomly, so hearing only half words and sentences made him oblivious to whatever transpired on their hasted ride. He imagined Sherlock shifting between yelling at him and the crew, equally annoyed with everyone present, for whatever reasons he could come up with. John had learned that that was Sherlock's charming way of handling fear and uncertainty. Which, John dared believe, he felt right now. Suddenly he felt a painful stab in his left wrist, and he swatted at whatever pained him. "Auch! What the-?" his hearing came rushing back, leaving him to listen to Sherlock's childish giggles and a male cursing loudly. "What was that? What happened?"

It was the first thing he had said on the entire trip, and he felt someone looming over him, and was not surprised to hear Sherlock's voice close to his ear.

"You just smacked doctor Howard over the chin, that's what," and then more giggles.

"I what? Oh, God, I'm sorry!" John felt immensely embarrassed. And Sherlock wasn't helping. He should be more concerned and much less giggling. Goddamnit.

"Don't worry. It's fine," the doctor said somewhat restrained. John bit his lip. He hadn't held back with that punch. Was the doctor bleeding? Shit, if he was, no one would tell him. Except maybe Sherlock. Yeah, he's probably going to brag about his doctor-punching doctor. Christ, this is going to be awful.


	3. Chapter 3

(I'm glad to see the story is being followed. That's why I'm giving you the next chapter already. Please excuse typos or misspelling- english is my second language. Enjoy!)

**Chapter 3**

"John!"

"Wha- yes, yes I hear you! Christ Sherlock!" John jumped in his seat. He was currently seated on the edge of a hospital bed. He had refused to lie down, convincing the nurses he was perfectly capable of holding himself up. They were reluctant, but Sherlock scared them away eventually. "You were quiet," Sherlock defended himself.

"Yes, well, that happens sometimes!"  
Sherlock didn't reply.

"Are you dead?"

Sherlock sputtered, "Why would you ask such a thing? Obviously I'm not!" Was that a pout? Yes, he was absolutely pouting. John allowed himself to laugh.

"Because you were quiet! And that doesn't happen- not with you."

Sherlock mumbled something John couldn't hear.

"I does. When I think," he grumbled.

"Well, yeah, I'll give you that one. Unless you are trying to tell me that I don't think often enough, because then you're wrong."  
Sherlock huffed. "Perfect logic, doctor Watson."  
"As always," John said simply.

Sherlock shifted in his chair, making creak loudly. John took a moment to relish in the low rumble of Sherlock's voice as he mumbled to himself, letting it smooth out the worried lines in his face. He was still tense, slightly shaking but concealing it well, and of course blind. All this added up made him jumpy. He sat stiffly, both hands clutching the sheets of the bed not to move a muscle. He irrationally feared that the slightest movement would cause him strong pain. You know, in case there was a knife sticking out of the bed, and everyone just forgot to tell him. Even though John couldn't think of any other scenarios that could get him hurt from simply moving around the hospital bed, he sat stiffly, staring into the blackness.

A scolding hot hand gently pried his fingers from the sheets. John stifled a gasp of surprise and heard Sherlock speak close to his ear. He would never get used to having him so close so suddenly. "John? They want you to wear some stupid gauze on your eyes. Shall I allow them?"  
'They' must be the doctors and nurses, John deduced. And the gauze must be to shield his healing eyes from unwanted light. Yes, that could be good for the healing process.

"Yes Sherlock, we'll listen to the medical staff, okay? And when did they say this? Are they here?" Again Sherlock spoke right beside his ear.

"Yes, they've been here for a few moments. They will apply the gauze now," Sherlock explained. As John felt the rough material of the gauze, he mentally willed himself not to swat at what he expected to be a nurse, as he was still on his toes.

John was hovering precariously between handling the shock, and being thrown into his own personal Afghanistan. Sherlock had thought of it immediately of course, after the first bombing he asked if John had experience with bombs. Well, not bombs exactly, their victims more likely. And yes, he had. And all he could think of, and what he tried his very best not to think of, was if he looked like those victims himself. He had counted his fingers, let a hand slide over his face and every now and then he would stretch his back. Everything hurt, but he still had ten fingers, a somewhat bloody but whole face and his back would move by his command. At least he wasn't dying. He briefly wondered if Sherlock knew of chaos John was trying to contain in his head. Maybe he _had_ been very quiet? Speaking of quiet- why was no one talking? The nurse was done with his gauze, so- "Have they left?" John asked whoever would happen to be close to him. Sherlock answered him right away.

"Yes, but only just. Would you like to get out of here?"  
John quirked an eyebrow; "Am I allowed?"

Sherlock groaned, "As if we care! My sedative is finally wearing off, and I can get you into a cab by myself perfectly fine!"  
"Okay well- wait. Sedative? So you _were_ hurt!" John tried to grabble into the darkness searching for Sherlock maybe hoping to somehow go over the other mans injuries himself.  
"No, I'm perfectly fine. I just- I suppose I got slightly… upset when you were unresponsive in the ambulance. So I was given a sedative- much against my will I'll like to say- and it made me all…" John swore he heard Sherlock frowning. I shouldn't be possible, but this was Sherlock after all, "giddy," he ended.

John was quiet for a moment. "Giddy? You? Is that why you were giggling at me when I smacked that poor medic?"

"I wasn't _giggling_." He said venomously.

"Ha! Yes you were! I was there, and I heard it!"  
"You were deaf! Obviously you were either sedated yourself or the shock must have-"  
"Shut up, Sherlock, you were giggling and you know it. If you promise not to tell I punched that doctor I wont tell you were giggling."  
Sherlock huffed, and shifted in his chair. "Who would we tell anyway? It's not like anyone's interested."  
"Sally sure loves to gossip about us, but yeah." John fell silent before continuing with uncertainty in his voice, "Were you really- I mean, were you-?"  
"What?" Sherlock demanded. John sighed and that asked more firmly, "were you really so scared for my health that they had to sedate you?"

Now Sherlock fell silent. Then said casually "Obviously."

John smiled. That felt good, knowing Sherlock cared. Even if that meant he would freak out in an ambulance and turn into a giddy giggling mess to prevent him from hurting himself or others. Yeah, it still feels good.

"What?" Sherlock demanded impatiently. "What are you smiling about?"  
"I'm just happy, that's why," John answered, knowing very well that Sherlock didn't like him smiling after confessing anything remotely emotional. "So are you ready to break me out of this place?"

"Indeed," Sherlock said quickly and John heard the rushed ruffle of clothes as Sherlock jumped out of his chair and took a hold of Johns arm and lead him out the door.

John had to admire Sherlock's talent at slipping unseen and unnoticed out of busy hospitals. It was only around noon, which meant there would be several nurses patrolling every hallway. But John chose not to ponder on it. How, he wasn't sure, but they made into a cab eventually. John didn't know he had had an iron grip on Sherlock's rough coat until he asked him to let go so that he could get him into the cab. John mumbled his excuses and climbed into the cab precariously. He silently thanked Sherlock for being his stern solid self, not fussing over him and practically forcing him to go home before he was permitted. The last thing John needed was the careful words of nurses and doctors ensuring him 'everything thing will be just fine'. It screamed to the heavens that they had just as much of an idea what would happen as John did. And that was very much less than helpful. At least John knew he would be entertained if he went back to Baker Street with Sherlock. Whether that is good or bad, only time will show. Speaking of Baker Street, "Where are we even going? Baker Street must be in ruins? God, is our flat even still there?"  
"Don't worry I got a text from Lestrade explaining that it was only our staircase that was affected. We might need an alternate point of entrance but I'm sure we'll make it."  
"Sherlock if you haven't noticed, I'm sort of not up for any parkour today."  
"We've got some stairs in the backyard. We'll use them."  
"… some stairs? What do you mean?"  
"I had them installed when the yard had me under surveillance some time ago. Makes it easy to slip in and out unnoticed," Sherlock explained casually, though a smirk was evident in his voice.

"Oh. Well, of course. Of course you did."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"_Where are we even going? Baker Street must be in ruins? God, is our flat even still there?"  
"Don't worry I got a text from Lestrade explaining that it was only our staircase that was affected. We might need an alternate point of entrance but I'm sure we'll make it."  
"Sherlock if you haven't noticed, I'm sort of not up for any parkour today."  
"We've got some stairs in the backyard. We'll use them."  
"… some stairs? What do you mean?"  
"I had them installed when the yard had me under surveillance some time ago. Makes it easy to slip in and out unnoticed," Sherlock explained casually, though a smirk was evident in his voice._

"_Oh. Well, of course. Of course you did." _

Sherlock dragged John along when they arrived. He didn't walk at his usual speed though, and led John by resting a hand on his shoulder. "It's just through here," Sherlock mumbled- or maybe John's hearing was off again? Eventually John felt Sherlock's slim fingers curl around his hand and John jumped by the sudden intimacy but quickly found that he was simply being let to the a step on the metal staircase. It was more of a ladder than a staircase though. From what John could tell without his eyesight, it was made of simple metal pipes fastened to the brick wall. It was solid though, and John set his foot on the first step. "I'll be right behind you, if you should slip," Sherlock ensured. John tried to push away how glad the protectiveness Sherlock voice leaked of made him feel. "Yes, alright. Up we go" John mumbled. He hoisted himself up, wincing when his shoulder protested but kept going. They both made it to what John suspected to be the window of Sherlock's bedroom in one piece and without complications. John was relieved to say the least. The last thing he wanted was to fall to his death in the backyard of Baker Street from Sherlock's secret surveillance ladder. He let out a breath as his feet met solid ground and stepped out of Sherlock's way when he heard him shuffle through the window. "You good?" he asked.

"Fine. Now let's get you some proper clothes. I hate seeing you in that horrific hospital shirt," Sherlock said obviously frowning.

"What hospital shirt?" John questioned letting his hands pat at his upper torso. He was right, he was in a scratchy sterile, most likely clinically white, hospital shirt. He quickly made sure he was wearing his usual pants, which he was, but was still baffled that he hadn't notice anyone remove either his new jacket or his jumper. "When did they-?  
Sherlock replied before he was done asking, "The ambulance ride. Not sure about the exact time as I was sedated, all I know is that they had you changed by the time I could think clearly, which was when we had already made it to the bed you remember sitting on."

"Alright then. I suppose Lestrade would want it for evidence. Since he didn't get my last jacket that is," John said pointedly. Sherlock moved out of the room, leaving the door open for John to follow him saying, "Oh, don't be like that. I doubt he even realizes that he's missing it, but he can always just get it later."

"Sure, Sherlock, if you say so." John shrugged and followed Sherlock with his good arm raised in front of him, should he have miscalculated their current location in the flat.

John stumbled his way to his chair and plunged down with a sigh. He heard the kettle beginning to boil and Sherlock ask, "Tea?"  
"Never though I'd hear you ask that. But yes, thanks that would be wonderful."  
Sherlock huffed "I've made tea before…" of course he had to defend himself. John chose not to argue, since he _did_ make him tea yesterday. Woa- twice in two days? John almost wished they would encounter suicide bombers more often now. Almost. Soon he was handed a cup of tea and a gently warning from Sherlock, "It's hot, don't spill it this time."  
"I'll try." As John waited for his tea to cool he spend his time thinking of the bombings and realized that Sherlock must be doing the same. "How come our flat is even still here?"  
"What do you mean?" Sherlock questioned.

"You said you believed these bombers where part of a Moriarty copycat scheme or something, right? But that one bomb Moriarty set off was much more powerful. This one barely hurt me, and I was standing practically next to it!"  
"I wouldn't agree that it didn't hurt you John, but I see your point. I've been pondering about that myself," Sherlock said. He used his deep rumbling voice, that one he always unconsciously uses when he is in deep thought, John noted.

"And what did you conclude? Have you solved the puzzle then?" John inquired.

"No, not yet. It's not much of a puzzle yet anyway, we don't have a lot to go on. I will have to speak to Lestrade. Maybe he has some facts about the nature of the bombs by now."  
"I've got some," John said suddenly. Sherlock waited for him to continue, surprised to hear what John had said. "I mean- I've-I've seen bombs, but I'm not a professional. I didn't see the first bomb go off since I was busy knocking you over and all. But the second one was not meant to be lethal. Not to others anyway."  
"How come? What would the purpose be then? To scare us?"  
"I don't know, maybe? You're the genius, all I know is that the blast was meant to blind whoever were close when I went off. Could it be a message?" John heard Sherlock shuffle and imagined him slot his hands together in thought as he always does. "So you're saying you believe someone is plotting something against us," he concluded.

"Like I said, you're the genius, not me- and 'plotting' is a big word, don't you think? Maybe it's just- I don't know- someone trying to scare us. For whatever reason."

"No, it doesn't make sense. Something is clearly missing. We need more data to work this out," Sherlock stated. John nodded, eyes shifting uncomfortably underneath his gauze, "I agree. But first you've got to tell me what the doctors told you. Have I broken any bones?"  
"No, you've got some bruises but you'll be fine. Don't worry, I've got you covered, John." Sherlock said quickly, obviously uncomfortably speaking of it. "Speaking of covers, I forgot to get you a new shirt!" He got up quickly, and strode out of the room before John could protest.

He was back in a heartbeat though, gently pulling John tea from him and replacing it with a soft sweater. "It's one of you usual ones, it was the first I could get to," he explained. John frowned. "Did you not just tell me that the stairs were done for? Did you install some secret pathway to my room upstairs too?"

Sherlock just sighed as if John was being completely ridiculous, "Of course not, the upper staircase is simply still standing."  
It didn't make sense to John, but he believed him. "Alright, thank you then," he said, before ripping of the scratchy hospital shirt and pulling on the much comfier sweater Sherlock had brought him. "Don't mention it," Sherlock brushed it off.

Sherlock gave John back his tea and John sipped at it for a moment before asking, "So why are you still here?"  
"Still where?"  
"Here, in Baker Street. Why are you not storming through London like a madman to talk to Lestrade?"  
"Because Lestrade is slow and I've got a crime scene in the next room," Sherlock stated simply. "And my doctor is suffering temporary blindness so I couldn't very well go anywhere now could I?" he said getting out of his chair and moving around the room. John figured he was getting his coat off.

"I suppose not… Speaking of Lestrade- why is this place not swarming with police?" Sherlock let out an amused sound, "Either they still think it's blown to pieces or they can't find a ladder. They've never been too bright John you know that. But they'll be here eventually, so let's make sure to look especially non-caring and bored when they show up, shall we?"

John huffed a laugh, "Yeah, sure, let's."

"Until then I'd like you to describe to me all you can tell about those bombs, however little it may be. Every detail is essential."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5! I'm writing like a madman these days. I've wanted to create this story for a long time, but didn't expect anyone to be even remotely interested in it. But you kind reviews very more than enough encouragement for me to at least give it another chapter or two. Seeing how popular it has become I can assure you I will end it properly. Please note that in small segments of this and future chapters things will be explained and described 'outside of Johns head' which simply means everything won't be described by a blind point of view. And thank you all for reading!**

**Chapter 5**  
_Speaking of Lestrade- why is this place not swarming with police?" Sherlock let out an amused sound, "Either they still think it's blown to pieces or they can't find a ladder. They've never been too bright John you know that. But they'll be here eventually, so let's make sure to look especially non-caring and bored when they show up, shall we?" _

_John huffed a laugh, "Yeah, sure, let's."_

"_Until then I'd like you to describe to me all you can tell about those bombs, however little it may be. Every detail is essential."_

John did his best trying to be as scientific about his explanation of bombs as possible. He felt he lacked in knowledge but Sherlock seemed to find every single word excruciatingly interesting if the dead silence was anything to go by. Afraid Sherlock had spontaneously fallen asleep during his ranting John asked, "Useful?"

"Yes," John heard Sherlock put his teacup on the table and John proceeded to drink his own. "I think it is evident the bombings were a message of some sort. A warning."  
"Go on," John said sipping his tea.

"Someone who know what a threat Moriarty were to us- how close he got by kidnapping you back then, wants to remind us of this."  
John frowned. "That's no very specific. Do you mean that this someone wishes to remind us of Moriarty or the feeling of being threatened?"  
"Either. And I'm not sure whether we're talking about a single person or perhaps a group."  
"You make it sound like we're fighting terrorist Sherlock," John sighed. This whole deal was starting to make him uncomfortable.

"You did serve in Afghanistan John," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Please don't joke about terrorist? Let's stay focused on something more likely alright?"  
"Very well," Sherlock agreed and stood from his chair to pace the room as he so often did when solving mysteries. "A message then. A message from either a person or a group. We've already seen two suicide bombers- which could indicate that we are facing a group whose intent is to blow themselves up one by, one until there's no more of them left or until they succeed to do whatever they intent to. Like getting their message through. But I don't see where such a commitment should come from. Whatever the cause of their commitment, had this thing been organized by a single person… Then we should be looking for someone powerful…" Sherlock fell silent as he though this over. "Someone powerful who has connections with angry, delusional or suicidal men. And hates us. They must hate us, whoever they may be."

"It seems like you think it's more likely with a single man controlling this?"  
"He has no control, John. He simple gives them a task and they follow him blindly," Sherlock's voice was growing darker by the minute.

"What are you talking about? You've got no evidence to back any of that up!" John put his tea on table, slowly lowering it not to smack it against the surface on accident.

"John, every suicide bombers in the history of the world have been manipulated, delusional men. We only ever lay down our lives to gain something in return. A clear path to heaven, money or protection for those we leave behind or everlasting glory or respect from the living. Can't you see that it makes perfect sense? With a powerful or resourceful man leading all the lunatics to us?"  
John pondered for a moment, "I still think you lack a lot of evidence. But it makes sense I suppose."

"Of course it does. It's only logical."

"Yes, of course it is. You know what? I'm sitting here thinking that there's no way in hell you could solve half this crime without even looking at the crime scene- or even _texting_ Lestrade- but I can't help but to think that at the end of this you're just going to do that thing with your jacket and say 'told you so'!"

"What thing with my jacket?" Sherlock asked, completely ignoring what he probably though was an obvious observation.

"Just- that- you know the 'swoosh'-thing," John waved his hands in the air.

"Swoosh?" Sherlock repeated a quirked eyebrow evident in his voice.  
"Shut up," John grumbled and crossed his arms when Sherlock suppressed an amused huff.

Just as John opened his mouth to speak a loud shriek pierced through the silence. Even without his eyesight John sought out Sherlock and he was positive Sherlock was doing the same with him. John stared blindly in Sherlock's direction for a second before gasping, "Mrs. Hudson!" John got to his feet, and stumbled towards the door halting with his hands on the doorframe as not to fall down their now-gone stairs. Sherlock was by his side, peeking down at Mrs. Hudson. "Good evening Mrs. Hudson! Everything alright?"

Mrs. Hudson spun around, her big worried eyes meeting Sherlock's slim grey ones immediately. "Sherlock! I though the hole darn place had been ripped apart for a moment! Are you and John all right? I don't see the good Doctor anywhere!" she quipped quickly.

"I'm right here Mrs. Hudson, we're very sorry about you stairs. I promise it wasn't Sherlock's fault this time though. He's innocent for once."  
Sherlock turned to look at John "For once? What's that supposed to mean?"  
"Oh you know very well what that means Sherlock," John lectured him good-naturedly. His face split into a wide grin when Sherlock only grunted in reply. Sherlock peeked down at Mrs. Hudson once more. "Bickering like a married couple as usual I see," she said and then turned and walked out of Sherlock's sight. "I guess you really are both fine then," Sherlock hear her remove her coat and put down her bag before she returned to stand just at the end of the ruined staircase. Sherlock saw John open his mouth to comment on Mrs. Hudson's choice of words but Mrs. Hudson shrieked again, though this time not as loudly. "John! My God, what has happened to you? Sherlock!" she put her hands on her hips in a lecturing stance very unlike Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock looked her in the eye befuddled by her sudden change of character "How can I leave the house when I come home seeing the only doctor in this establishment has been blinded and my favorite stairs have been smashed to pieces?" she scolded. Sherlock was grateful that John could see him when he bowed his head in sort-of-faked guilt. "My apologies Mrs. Hudson, but John is right. A suicide bomber had made his way into Baker Street earlier today. He set off somewhere between where you and I are standing. He was also the one who blinded John –temporarily. He will be just fine. Oh, and I would recommend you not to sped to much time out here since all the dark spots would be human remains," he added flatly. John sputtered. "A-Sherlock! Don't say that-"

"All right, I'll keep that in mind. Do you think the police will mind if I clean up some of the mess?" Mrs. Hudson asked in her everyday happy voice- completely unaffected by the fact that she was surrounded by human remains. John was clearly shocked, though he hid it well.

John was beyond baffled, but it quickly as he remembered just who he was having the pleasure of being in company with. "No, no they won't mind. Do whatever you please Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock said in a carefree voice. John just huffed.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John asked the darkness.  
"Yes, dear?"

"Since I'm now blind, and I'm going to have trouble getting out of the flat on my own I was wondering if I could ask you a favor? If it were not too much trouble it would be lovely if you could buy some of our groceries? Not all of them, only the essentials," John bit his lip, feeling bad for burdening Mrs. Hudson, but seeing that Sherlock would rather starve than getting even remotely close to a supermarket, he found no alternate solutions.

"But how will you cook, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked. John drew a blank. Maybe he hadn't really thought that one through. "Uh, I suppose I'll- I could just-"  
"Don't you worry, sweethearts, I'll cook for you until you get back on your feet, John. But next time I expect you to have put you clever head to use and learned how to cook, Sherlock!"  
John couldn't see, but Sherlock looked nothing less than mortified. Now Sherlock was the one to open his mouth only to be interrupted by Mrs. Hudson, "Dinner will be ready at seven, so you better have some contraption ready for you to hoist it up. I suppose it will be out back then? By you fancy surveillance ladder?"  
"Wait- she knew about that?" Why was he surprised? Why did he even bother anymore?

"Of course. Nothing happens in Baker Street without Mrs. Hudson knowing, John."  
"Of course."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'll have something put together. I'll be waiting by my bedroom window at seven," Sherlock replied her.

"Goodie! I'll see you, then!"  
"Later Mrs. Hudson," John and Sherlock answered in sync. John heard her giggle as she returned to her front door. He vaguely wondered if it was covered in human as well. Not that she would mind, obviously. John sighed as he once against was faced with the fact that he lived amongst the strangest people in London- and he didn't really mind. The last part was always the most concerning to him.


	6. Chapter 6

**No mystery solving this time. But there's some sweetness going on between our wonderful boys so I'm sure you'll forgive me. Your reviews are my biggest encouragement, so thank you to those who has review the story so far. You are so very kind!**

**Chapter 6**

"_Later Mrs. Hudson," John and Sherlock answered in sync. John heard her giggle as she returned to her front door. He vaguely wondered if it was covered in human as well. Not that she would mind, obviously. John sighed as he once against was faced with the fact that he lived amongst the strangest people in London- and he didn't really mind. The last part was always the most concerning to him._

Somehow Sherlock had some kind of hoisting contraption set up right next to his bedroom window that made it possible for Mrs. Hudson to place the food on a stable platform that he would hoist to the second floor without any complications. And all that was done in time for dinner. Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a happy wave before she disappeared once again. Sherlock met John in the kitchen with two plates of steaming hot soup. "Dinner is served!" Sherlock announced. "Oh, that's wonderful!" The moment they sat down John heard voices coming from downstairs. "I think Lestrade found a ladder."  
"And I believe your hearing is getting better," relief was much more obvious in Sherlock's voice than he had intended. He coughed and added, "Remember to look bored."  
John huffed, "Of course, how could I forget?"

Moments later Lestrade, Sgt. Donovan and a few uniforms entered the flat. "Hello Lestrade," Sherlock greeted. "Hungry? I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would be willing to make you a portion as well."  
"Sherlock bloody Holmes- what are you doing in here? How did you even get here? And why are you not in the hospital? Good God I though you were the mature one!"

John chuckled. Sherlock sighed, "So many questions! Are you always like this? Even when not at work I mean? No matter. John's fine, his hearing is already better. I've discovered that we're dealing with a resourceful man who can get into contact with weak-minded individuals without much problem and probably without causing suspicion. There! Now go away and do your best finding him and wait for my call."  
"How the hell did you come up with that?" Lestrade asked frustrated throwing his hands up.

"Have you met me?" Sherlock retorted with a quirked eyebrow. John snorted and smirked at Sherlock but didn't comment. Sally remained surprisingly quiet; she only sighed dramatically and turned on her heel to leave.

"Fine, whatever Sherlock. It's not much to go on, but we'll do our best. But are you sure you'll be all right John? You could lose you sight permanently without the correct treatment, but I'm sure you knew that."  
Sherlock's head snapped to stare at Johns face. His eyes were impossible to read for Lestrade but they seemed instantly colder and more focused. "Yes, I'm aware. I'm afraid all I can to is wait a couple of days and try and see if there has been any improvement."  
"Improvement how? How sure is it that you'll get you sight back John?" Lestrade asked with worry. They were friends after all, and loosing ones sight is one great fucking deal to say the least. "Oh don't worry, there's only a very slim change for that to happen. And improvement would be that I'd be able to see shapes or the difference of light or dark or something like that. I've never tried it myself so I'm not… really sure." Sherlock knew John was lying but Lestrade, of course, didn't notice a thing and simply sighed in relief, "Great, please update my on both the case and your health, okay guys?"  
"Sure thing, Greg," John assured. Sherlock said nothing.

"Okay then, let's go lads," and they were off. Moments later the flat was quiet once again and John proceeded to finish his soup. He frowned, as he didn't hear the clacking of Sherlock's spoon. "Are you not going to eat? It's really tasty you know, and Mrs. Hudson made it for us after all."  
"What are the odds?" Sherlock asked coolly.

"I- what? What odds?"

"For you to permanently loose you sight?" he elaborated, eyes fixated on John gauze. He narrowed his eyes when John didn't respond right away. "Don't lie to me John, you know it's not possible."  
"Fifty-fifty."

Sherlock actually physically dropped his spoon into his soup and it clattered loudly and startled both men. "That's-" Sherlock's mind went completely quiet for one excruciating half a second and then bombarded itself with the information he had just received.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's fine. It's good odds- really. I've seen much worse cases in my time in Afga-"  
"I'll get you a doctor," Sherlock stated firmly.

"What? No Sherlock you can't-"  
"It's not up for discussion. I'll have Mycroft find the best there is and we'll get you better."  
"Sherlock listen. There's nothing you can to before we know if I'm getting better by my self-" Sherlock cut him short once again, this time John heard his voice shaking but only so faintly no one else would have noticed. "When is that? How long do we have to wait? I need to know everything John, I though I had this under control I-"

"Sherlock!" Sherlock shut up. John took a breath and Sherlock unconsciously did the same. Sherlock frowned slightly when he realized he had been manipulated into following Johns calming gesture but didn't mention it. "I'm not an expert all right? In Afghanistan we didn't have the luxury to wait the five days you normally should. We were forced to check for improvement after 36 hours. Sometimes people got lucky, and were able to see some improvement but mostly they were escorted home to get time to regain their sight… or face the fact that they'd be blinded for life. So I'd say we'll peel this thing of tomorrow morning or whenever we wake up and see if anything has changed, all right?" He gestured at his gauze.

"Yes. That is acceptable. But if there's not I'll get Mycroft," Sherlock said firmly.

"Fine, you do that. Now eat you soup, it's getting cold."  
John chose not to mention Sherlock's nervous behavior. It would make Sherlock all defensive and John didn't mind sitting enjoying his cooling soup with a feeling of being cared for. Not at all.

When they had finished their meal John stretched his back and yawned. It wasn't late yet the d traumas and emotional and physical stress had John feeling ridiculously tired. "Sherlock would you mind following me up the stairs? I'm not sure I should run round out there on my own like this," John waved at his face.

"Of course. Now?"  
"If you don't mind, yeah." Sherlock had his hand around his wrist in a heartbeat and gently lead him to the stairs. John received no warnings so he assumed Sherlock was right about the upper staircase being intact. He still winced when the steps creaked loudly but they made it safely to his room. Sherlock let go of John and waited by the door as John slowly walked into the room. "Will you be all right?"

"Yeah, thank you Sherlock. Really, I'll be fine."  
"Good. Call me as soon as you wake up, I want to be here to observe you as you remove your gauze."

"Sure, Sherlock, I'll do that. Hey-" John turned to him and bit his lip, almost not speaking after all. "Yes?" Sherlock inquired.

"Thank you."

Sherlock blinked, "What for?"  
"For being so… great- at helping I mean! I'm just-" John sighed at himself. Cool it, John, he's the one with emotional problems not you. "I'm grateful for your awareness I guess. So there."  
"I see. I suppose I should say 'you're welcome', and you are, but I believe it is my duty since you are my closest friend after all," Sherlock stood in the doorframe for a second that seemed to stretch for the longest moments. Then John grinned and said.

"Okay then. Goodnight Sherlock. Try to get some sleep."  
"Goodnight John."

John kept smiling even as he stumbled into bed. Being temporary blinded wasn't all bad after all then.


	7. Chapter 7

**Things are going to be intense in Chapter 8, so enjoy this fluffy Chapter until then. Shit is about to go down.**

**Chapter 7**

"_Thank you." _

_Sherlock blinked, "What for?"_

"_For being so… great- at helping I mean! I'm just-" John sighed at himself. Cool it, John, he's the one with emotional problems not you. "I'm grateful for your awareness I guess. So there."_

"_I see. I suppose I should say 'you're welcome', and you are, but I believe it is my duty since you are my closest friend after all," Sherlock stood in the doorframe for a second that seemed to stretch for the longest moments. Then John grinned and said. _

"_Okay then. Goodnight Sherlock. Try to get some sleep."_

"_Goodnight John."_

_John kept smiling even as he stumbled into bed. Being temporary blinded wasn't all bad after all then._

John knew he had been dreaming the moment he woke up. Sweaty, breathing too fast and grappling at his sheets to remind him they were there. 'Home' he thought, 'I'm home, I'm home, I'm home…" Slowly his body relaxed as it realized that he was, in fact, home and safe- and that he had not just spend twenty seemingly endless hours stitching together countless of bomb victims, soldiers and civilians alike. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep again, and turned for the watch by his bed to figure out time, only to realize he couldn't see it. He had the gauze still on of course, but it still made him frown in unease. Oh well. Rain was hammering down outside, and so it was chilly in the room and he couldn't tell if it was night or day that way. Bugger. "Sherlock?" he called, remembering his request from last night. He frowned once again when he received no answer. "Sherlock? Are you awake?"

He stood up and made it to his door, and as he opened it the sound of Sherlock violin met his tired senses. 'That explains it then,' he thought to himself. Deciding Sherlock wouldn't be able to hear him, John made his way down the stairs as slow as he could manage.

"Sherlock?" he called as he opened the door to the sitting room. Sherlock's violin came to a screeching halt and John cringed at the sound.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed surprised. "How long have you been up? Did I wake you?"  
"No, no I just had uh- I had a bad dream. What's the time?"  
"Ten. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine," John brushed it off by waving his hand in the air and made his way to his chair. He slumped down and sighed.

"Can you check now?"  
"What? Oh, yeah, of course." John led his hands to his face, but was stopped by Sherlock. "Let me do it," he said, lowering Johns hands with his own. John just nodded. Sherlock was obviously affected by this whole mess, and perhaps this was a way for him to feel useful. And John found it to be sort of sweet. Not that he would ever admit.

As he felt Sherlock remove the gauze he felt something unsettling creeping in on him though. Was he nervous? Yes, in fact he was holding back the trembling in his hand and he had to mentally will every fiber of his body to relax. And then cool air met his eyelids. And he opened his eyes on instinct, not even considering warning Sherlock.

For a second there was nothing. Then, like when you enter a dark room, blurred shapes of grey and black emerged from the darkness. John broke into a broad grin of relief when he was able to make out the shape of Sherlock's curly head in front of the fireplace. He was completely black, and he could see no facial expression on him whatsoever, but in the sharp light of the fireplace, which really was just a lighter shade of black to John, he could at least make him out of the nothingness.  
"Better?" Sherlock inquired immediately.

"A little. I can see you now- sort of," John raised a hand and pokes Sherlock on his cheek with a quiet, "Hello."

Sherlock sighed in relief and leaned his head against Johns childish finger. "Hello. So no specialist doctors then?"  
"No specialists," John confirmed. "Not unless something happens," Sherlock froze against John's hand, which lingered at his cheek. "Elaborate," he commanded.

"Uh, if one eye is healing slower than the other it might have gotten infected by it's time in gauze, but that's highly unlikely seeing that I was treated in a sterile environment. Or it could just have been more severely damaged. But other than that I think I'm good. Really Sherlock, it's fine."  
"I'll decide what's fine, thank you," Sherlock grumbled in feigned anger. He stood up from his position in front of John's chair and pulled out his phone. John followed his movements noticing how the shape of Sherlock body was harder to make out in the darker areas of the room. "I'm texting Mycroft. I'll have him get some specialist on stand-by so that should these symptoms occur you'll have access to them right away," he stated.

"Sherlock, really, it's okay. It's not like I'm dying, and you shouldn't bother Mycroft."

"Shut up John, you know I get overly possessive of my things, and you are one of my favorites, And Mycroft owes my anyway, and you know how he constantly worries."

"First of all, I'm not one of you 'things', but thank you anyway," John keeps following Sherlock's pacing with his eyes calmly while he allows himself to smile at Sherlock's words. "And Mycroft worries about you not me."  
"He worries about you because of me. He knows I need you to stay sane. Besides, Mycroft worries about everything. Constantly."  
"He thinks you need me to stay sane?" John asked befuddled. Not that he was surprised. He had stopped being surprised. He should, at least.

"Of course he does. And I do, I just don't want him to hear me admit it. He gets so annoying when I admit things," Sherlock rambled as he texted furiously and paced the room like always. John just huffed a laugh. "Okay then. You win."  
"Obviously. There, it's done. Now, are you up for some madman hunting?" typical Sherlock, always on his way to the next thing on his agenda. "I need food first." John said, putting a hand on his stomach. "I haven't had breakfast and I'll bet you haven't either."  
Sherlock grumbled. "But Mrs. Hudson hasn't made us anything."  
"Oh," John realized, "No, I suppose she'll only make us dinner. That's only fair I guess. Well, then you'll have to make it."  
Sherlock sputtered, "A-Wha- Me? Make you breakfast? You know I don't cook!"

"Make _us_ breakfast, Sherlock, and there's a big difference from 'don't cook' and 'can't cook'. You're the genius, I'm sure you can manage. I'll be there to help you as well."

Sherlock growled in annoyance. "And then can we go catch a madman?"  
"Yes, then we go catch a madman," John agreed, snickering at Sherlock's petulance.

"…_Fine_," Sherlock finally agreed. "I'll made breakfast. And you're helping!"


	8. Chapter 8

**I've got to warn you! John and Sherlock tend to swear when they get pissed! Which they will be in this chapter, so be warned. Other than that, enjoy Sherlock and John do their thing!**

**Chapter 8**

_Sherlock sputtered, "A-Wha- Me? Make you breakfast? You know I don't cook!" _

"_Make us breakfast, Sherlock, and there's a big difference from 'don't cook' and 'can't cook'. You're the genius, I'm sure you can manage. I'll be there to help you as well." _

_Sherlock growled in annoyance. "And then can we go catch a madman?"  
"Yes, then we go catch a madman," John agreed, snickering at Sherlock's petulance. _

"…_Fine," Sherlock finally agreed. "I'll made breakfast. And you're helping!"_

As it turned out, once Sherlock realized that cooking wasn't rocket science (though if it had been it would hardly have been a problem) he was able to make a decent meal. Eggs and roasted toast wasn't the most complicated dish either, and under John's instructions they had a hot plate of breakfast in no time. Both done eating, and after John's quick shower they were ready to go. John felt much better going down the stairs now that he could at least outline the horizon, though that was more or less it. Every sane person would have stayed home where he was less likely to hurt himself- but every sane person would also never have followed Sherlock Homes anywhere for the same reason. But John just shrugged mentally and let Sherlock guide him into a cab. "Where to?"  
"The Yard, and be quick about it. We're in a hurry," Sherlock answered quickly.  
"We are?" John asked. He had, as usual, not been filled in on Sherlock's plan for the day.

"Aren't we always?" Sherlock smirked. John huffed in answer. They came too a halt outside the yard and Sherlock dragged John out the car. "Sherlock," John stopped Sherlock before he stormed in the door to the Yard where he surely would be lost to John in the dim light of the offices in there. "Um- I don't think-"  
"Yes, of course, here," he too John's hand in a firm grip and dragged him along once again. "Oh! Uh, okay then!" John stuttered surprised. He bit his lips imagining what Sgt. Donovan was going to say to this. Sherlock's brilliant idea of holding hands through the entire yard was going to be on the lips of the gossiping Sergeant for weeks- no months! Oh hell- not like there was anything he could do. John held Sherlock's hand a little firmer when the busy voices and shouts met both men as they barreled through the door. Sherlock didn't slow down in the slightest as he pushed his way through the crowd. John was getting more uncomfortably the louder the shouts became and the longer from the exit they got. The whole thing reminded him too much of the battlefield at night- disorientated, blinded by darkness and only hearing screams and shouts from enemies and friends you couldn't see.

"Mornin' lads," Greg's voice suddenly cut through the growing chaos. John let out a breath he didn't know he had held back and smiled widely. "Hey, Greg."

"Morning Lestrade," Sherlock greeted. "As I said yesterday, we're looking for a resourceful male individual with access or connection to delusional men. The resourceful individual has the means to promise the delusional men something of such value that will make them give up their lives. It is not religious. And I highly doubt it is money that he is giving away, since starting up drug dealing would be much easier."  
"Uhm, sure Sherlock, let's cut right to the case!" Lestrade put down the coffee he had been sipping at, and sat back in his chair. "John, there's a chair to your right," he said helpfully. John put out his hand and stumped it against a wooden chair. "Ouch, ha, yeah I've found it," he chuckled. He let go of Sherlock and sat down slowly. Sherlock blinked at them and then continued, "I've ruled out everyone I could think of so far, including Mycroft-" Sherlock began.

"Wait, Mycroft?" John questioned with a quirked eyebrow? The hell?  
"Yes, John- a person with resources that could make a man blow himself up for what he had to offer? And not to mention the contacts with lunatics."

John chuckled, "That lunatic wouldn't be you, would it?" Lestrade snorted a laugh though he tried his best to contain it. "Ha-ha, very funny," Sherlock retorted childishly.

"Okay, well, great. Mycroft's not the one who is trying to kill us! Then who is it, Sherlock?" John inquired. Sherlock huffed before continuing, "I'm missing something. I need to go to the first bombing scene to look for clues. I'll have that prick hunted down by midnight."  
"Getting touchy, are we Sherlock?" Lestrade snickered as he sipped at his coffee again.

"He messed with my property, Lestrade. Nobody does that," Sherlock retorted his voice ebbing with death. Lestrade kept his mouth shut and simply waved at Sherlock for him to go do his thing. John mused over Sherlock's choice of words, but didn't mention anything. Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him to his feet. John hadn't seen Greg's gesture and stumbled after Sherlock in surprise, "Later, Greg!" he shouted as they made it for the exit. Sherlock successfully got them a cab within five seconds and thus they were off again. Everything seemed to happen a lot faster when John couldn't keep track of it all with his eyes. It was making him slightly dizzy.

"Unbelievable," Sherlock snorted as the cab halted. "What is?" John asked as he was led out of the car and grabbed by his hand once again. "The police are still around. Donovan and Anderson as well."

"Good God. Please don't attack Anderson today, I'm relying on you to walk around, remember?" John almost begged. It would me mayhem if Sherlock jumped Anderson with neither Greg nor John around. Sherlock simply grunted and led John through a forest of dark shades of black and grey. John estimated there to be six uniforms, not counting Donovan and Anderson. Why was it always those two? Sherlock must have been thinking this for as long as he has known them.

"Hey freak, I see you've brought lover-boy?" Sally sneered.

"Please seize talking, you're making my ears bleed. I'll just have a look at the center of the explosion and we'll be off," John followed Sherlock silently, hating the situation more than he had expected to. Sally snorted behind them but kept silent. Anderson didn't get the memo though, so he appeared right at Sherlock's side and hissed "If you as much as touch my crime scene I'll have you arrested, Sherlock. I can't believe Lestrade let you in here! It's amazing the lunatics you have to deal with when you're on the force!" Anderson complained loudly.

"Shut up Anderson, you don't even own a badge," Sherlock brushed him off.

"Oh, and you do?" Anderson's voice was already hurting John's ears.

"As the matter of fact, yes," Sherlock said with a smirk. "John, I need you to go back to Baker Street and check something for me. Have Mrs. Hudson help you look for small slivers of metal with blue markings. I'm seeing them all over this area, and I need them to confirm-" John cut him short, "Sherlock I can't get there," he shook their joined hands lightly.

"Sure you can. Have one of the officers escort you to Baker Street and do as I said- make Mrs. Hudson help you look for the slivers," Sherlock stated simply.

"You can't just have an officer lead John around like a dog, Sherlock, you-" Anderson's rambling was interrupted by a young police officer, "I'll take him. We're not finding anything here anyway… sir," he added. Anderson snorted, but turned around and stomped away in defeat. "Thank you," John said, letting go of Sherlock and following the officer to his patrol car.

"Call me as soon as you get to Baker Street!" Sherlock yelled after him, John acknowledged and drove off with the officer.

"Here we are," the officer announced as the car rolled up Baker Street. He got out of the car before John could protest, and took his hand out of courtesy when it was offered to him. "Thank you, but I'm sure I can manage from now on," John assured,

"But how will you make it to your flat? Are the stairs not gone?" Bugger. John fiddled on the spot, drawing a blank on good excuses for this one. "Um, yeah, Sherlock helped me get upstairs last time, but I'll make it myself just fine," John couldn't reveal the location of Sherlock's 'secret ladder', Sherlock would kill him, but he didn't really know what to say. He couldn't possible make it to the first floor on his own, not blind. "All right, I'll give you a push if you need it," the young officer said.

John just shook his head a little. He was a very nice kid he just didn't need his help. Not right now. But if he wanted to get him to his flat so badly, then John could get a cup of tea before bothering Mrs. Hudson. With help from the officer John made it successfully to the first floor. "Thanks!" he called down the missing stairs.

"No worries, Doctor Watson!"

John made it inside then, and as he put the kettle on he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. "Yes?"

"John! Are you at Baker Street yet?" Sherlock was panting, running.

"Yes, I'm here- what are you doing? Everything all right?"  
"I've got it," Sherlock cursed as a car honked close by on Sherlock's end of the line. "It's like Anderson said; Police! They deal with lunatics everyday! Delusional men with nothing to loose except the ones they leave behind when they die- or when they go to jail!"

"So what are you saying?" John asked confused. The water was slowly starting to boil and he held his hand over his other ear to hear Sherlock better.

"Our resourceful man, John! He's an officer of the law! He has connections to delusional men who can be manipulated easily! You trust officers, right? _We_ trust them! He'll have the advantage of never being questioned and he would have been on the first scene of bombing, and he'd know our address too!"

"Sherlock that's-" John froze. An officer? It's true. He trusts officers. In fact, he trusts them enough to let them drive him home and trap him in his own flat. "Sherlock there's an officer just downstairs! How do we know which one he is? Are we-" John gasped as a thick metal chain was forced around his neck. His hands flew to the intrusive object and his phone fell from his grasp. Faintly, he heard Sherlock shouting his name, but it was soon washed over by the rushing of his own blood in his ears. He coughed and rasped as he struggled to wrestle his way out of the grip of his attacker. He tried to maneuver himself around but nothing worked. The kettle whistled loudly and John reached for it on instinct. He managed to grab it, and swung it forcefully over his head and hit his attacker dead between the eyes. "ARH!" John only had a moment to remove the chain from his neck and gasp twice for air before his attacker was back on him. This time John pushed him off though, and swung the kettle at him once more. For a moment he had the upper hand, getting a few well places hits on the intruder. John had time to realize that the man he was fighting wasn't wearing a uniform. He could tell by the obvious outlines of a hoodie. His attacker jumped him suddenly, and John hadn't the time to defend himself so he was pushed to the floor where he was pinned by the man. "Get off me asshole!" John yelled angrily and out of breath. He received no answer, the man only took both John's wrists and successfully kept them trapped in one of his hands. Was momentarily taken aback by the strength of the man, but was ripped back to reality when a scolding hot liquid was being poured on his palms. John yelped in pain and surprise. The water was boiling hot, and John quickly realized his attacker had turned his kettle to his advantage. The fucker was searing off his palms with the newly boiled tea water. John trashed his legs to kick him off, but he sat solid over his stomach as if nothing was happening. The water came coming in a steady stream, never seeming to stop. Then John jumped as he heard the intruder's contemptuous voice close to his ear. At first John didn't understand a word. Then the murmured words of an Afghani dialect hit him hard. "…thief! He says your fingers should be cut, and the eyes of you friend be seared of his face! He says you steal from him! From all of them!" he growled at John.

"Who?" John panted, still struggling and gritting his teeth at the boiling water on his skin. John only faintly acknowledged that he had begun speaking in the tunes of the familiar dialect without giving his consent, "Who said that?"

"You already know too much," the man growled and lifted the kettle from John's hands and held it over his head moving as if his was planning to bash John's head with it, only he was stopped by taking a foot to the face- Sherlock's foot to be exact. And then Sherlock's hands and feet were all over the guy, and he cried out in agony when something snapped loudly. His arm, John suspected. The cry was cut short by a loud thud and everything was dead silent for a moment. Then Sherlock turned to John and curled his cool fingers around John's wrists, gently pulling him into a sitting position. "John, your hands…" he whispered. "I'll get some cold water immediately." Sherlock shuffled and released John's wrists as he ran into the kitchen, which John had left while battling his attacker. Sherlock returned and took John's wrists again. "Tell me what happened," he demanded angrily.

"He- I didn't see him, I thought he was the police officer for a moment, but I don't think he is, and I couldn't hear him because the kettle- and you on the phone-"

"John-"  
"I was loud, but I managed to get him off- I mean he grabbed me with this chain-" John kept rambling, trying to get everything out at once.  
"John!" John closed his mouth. "I don't understand a word you're saying. Please speak English." John blinked. Speak English? What else would he be speaking? Oh.

"Sorry," John muttered. "He spoke Dari. I don't know what happened."

"You were in battle, someone spoke Dari to you so you spoke Dari back. It makes perfect sense. Try again in a moment. Now, open your hands for me," John winced as he complied.

"Is he dead?"  
"No, just unconscious. I need him for interrogation. Then I'll kill him," Sherlock's voice was the true sound of death and hatred, and John pulled a face imagining what Sherlock had in stock for the man. "Sherlock, maybe we should just call Lestrade? Get him to go through some police records or something? To find our guy I mean."  
"Lestrade is with the police, John. Until we find our madman we will not have any contact with him. And before you ask – no, I don' believe Gregory would have the brains to pull a trick like this. He's clearly not our man," Sherlock explained as he slowly lowered a cloth soaked in ice-cold water to John's wounds. John jumped and bit his lip when the cloth made contact. He grunted in pain put didn't say a word. "Forgive me," Sherlock mumbled. Both men jumped when a startlingly loud noise broke the silence. The ring of a phone emitted from the jacket pocket of the intruder. John and Sherlock made eye contact before either of them moved. "It could be our guy," John said. "Should we take it?"  
"No. It's likely he's calling to make sure he got the job done. If he doesn't pick up-"  
"-he failed. And our madman will be nervous. Makes it more likely for him to make a mistake and reveal himself. Good thinking," John ended Sherlock's string of thought. Sherlock gave John an approving lifted eyebrow and a smirk. "Yes, it is. Now let's get you fixed up and ready to take down this son of a bitch."  
Sherlock is swearing. He really _is_ pissed. Well, John was one of his favorite things, and this was the second time he had been messed with, so what can you do? John almost chuckles at the though but winced instead as the cold droplets of water runs down his scolded fingers. Yeah, this guy is in big trouble once Sherlock has the information he needs beaten out of John's attacker. Big trouble.


	9. Chapter 9

**Dear readers and followers. I want to apologize for the sudden delay of this chapter, but I believe I have a good excuse. A few short days after posting Chapter 8, three men who outmatched me considerably in both strength and size assaulted me. The assault was in absolutely no was sexual but traumatizing anyway. I was physically bruised and beaten but what really got to me was the humiliation from both the assaulters but also the police. I experienced something that many victims of violence apparently do. I felt indescribably humiliated talking to the officer who was to write down my statement. He did his job just fine, and one could argue that the way he spoke to me was either a necessity or part of his job, but nevertheless I could not feel more insulted over his choice of words or tone that he chose to use with and around me. And atop of that, the interview was done in the presence of my mom, who luckily only supported me. The whole experience was in short, very painful.**

**The assaulters have not been identified and probably never will. Frankly I don't care, I'm not one to be easily scared, and right now, all I care about is making sure I don't have to ever meet the officer I spoke gave my statement to. Which is just tragicomically idiotic in my opinion. But I have a very supportive family, and as an artist, reading, writing and drawing is my therapy. Which is also why I'm back this quickly. I hope you understand that I might make some odd hiccups in the next chapters, and please feel free to mention them. Otherwise I might never notice them! :)**

**Thank you for you consideration, and please enjoy this next chapter!**

**Chapter 9**

_Sherlock gave John an approving lifted eyebrow and a smirk. "Yes, it is. Now let's get you fixed up and ready to take down this son of a bitch."  
Sherlock is swearing. He really is pissed. Well, John was one of his favorite things, and this was the second time he had been messed with, so what can you do? John almost chuckles at the though but winced instead as the cold droplets of water runs down his scolded fingers. Yeah, this guy is in big trouble once Sherlock has the information he needs beaten out of John's attacker. Big trouble._

Okay. Deep breath. John estimated they had just about fifteen minutes before the intruder would wake up, which means fifteen minutes until mayhem begins again. He began assessing the damage done so far in his head. First bombing: lighter damage to his right shoulder - he should have taken a look at those fragments Sherlock said he had in it, they are beginning to bother him- and shock. Sherlock was not harmed. Second bombing: His shoulder is damaged during his descent of the staircase, and of course, he is temporary blinded and deafened. Briefly he wondered if he had bled from his ears, but shrugs it off. What difference does it make now? He also gained a number of cuts and bruises which he never had a chance to estimate the severity of. He had been looked over by nurses at the hospital but Sherlock managed to wrench him from their grip before he had the chance to fully comprehend what shape he was in. But he had walked from the place on his own two legs, hadn't he? Once again Sherlock was not harmed, however terrified or shocked he may have been on John's behalf. And now to the latest attack. His shoulder felt worse than ever, being knocked over and almost sat upon had not suited it, apparently. The back of his head was throbbing painfully but wasn't bleeding. No concussion at least.

His hands, though. He tried his best to focus, to bring his mind back to medical school, trying to remember any details about burns. Anything. They hurt, check. They looked and often smelled gruesome. He failed to remember any useful or at least scientific facts about burns. "How does it look?" he suddenly blurted. There was silence for a moment then Sherlock's looming presence was beside him again. He must have been pacing the room again. "Tell me." He demanded sensing Sherlock stalling. "I'm not-" he cut himself off. Something Sherlock never does unless he has an epiphany of galactic proportions. Now he just seems unsure of himself, or what to say. The apocalypse must be approaching. "No blisters yet, but clearly forming." He settled for. "Skin is a harsh red. Slightly swollen areas, skin seeming to crackle at several places. It looks painful. Is there anything I can do?" Sherlock all but whispered the last part. He seemed on the verge of exploding into a mess of rage and death, only held together for John's sake. John would have been moved, would perhaps even have smiled at him, had the time been another. When Sherlock uttered the word 'help' however, something imprinted deep in John's mind seemed to click. He opened his mouth, and out poured everything he had ben searching for.

"Cooling the burn reduces swelling by conducting heat away from the skin. Bandaging keeps air off the burn, reduces pain and protects blistered skin," there were other things, other important things, but they did not help his particular case. Sherlock had him by his wrists and on his feet in seconds, and John heard the water starting to run from the kitchen sink soon after. "Cool, not cold." John commented. The water was adjusted to his need and Sherlock let a wet finger run over his wrist to show him the result. He stuck his hands in the water as answer. It was an indescribable relief. His skin seemed to be on fire, and the water seemed to dull the pain however little. "Sherlock who is he after?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock had his entire being focused on John, not at all prepared for his question. John muffled a groan of pain and continued. "You're fine, I'm not. It's a little weird, that's all. Maybe he's after me, but not you? That guy-" John jerked his head towards the sitting room. "- He speaks Dari. That can hardly be a coincidence, right? And I was blinded, so they must know of my shooting skills. That makes sense doesn't it? He's after me for some reason."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "I see why you would make that assumption but I believe you lack evidence." John snorted, "Yeah, right. What do you think then? Got any proof yourself?"

"My work is based on what I see as much as what I know, John. I deduce with my eyes as much as my mind." John fell silent, considering what Sherlock was saying. "But you weren't blinded." He responded. "I could have been. If I had been the one getting your jacket instead of you, I would have been blinded."  
"But it was my jacket, why would you-?" Sherlock cut him off.

"For no particular reason, maybe I forgot something myself, perhaps I changed my mind, maybe I had a new idea-"  
"Sherlock it wasn't your fault," John said firmly. "I got my jacket, I was blinded by a bomb, and even you couldn't see that one coming."

John wasn't sure how the conversation changed so much so fast, but Sherlock's frustrated voice and senseless arguments had him worried. "I'm alive and you're alive. We're good."  
Only the quiet splashing of water against the sink broke the silence. "We're good," Sherlock agreed, or maybe he just repeated. "Yes."

"Yes," John continued," Now let's think logical, okay?"  
"Yes. Agreed." Sherlock straightened where he stood. "This man, did he mention the bombings?"  
"No, he-" John froze. "Did you check him for explosives? He's not-?"

"He's clean." Sherlock assured him. "Now, give me until he regains consciousness to think this through. I want my hands on the neck of whoever caused this."

And then Sherlock sat on the kitchen table, sweeping away a good percentage of his homemade lab to make room for him, not caring the least about the mess or the shattering noise he produced in doing so. Then he became silent, not bothered by John's presence or the water running nearby. John kept his mouth shut and focused on strangling hiccups and groans of pain.

A moan of pain, not from John but the intruder, send Sherlock's voice to work. "I have memorized almost every officer working on the Yard, and every single one who investigated what little is known of Moriarty. Sixteen of them know of our flat and fourteen of them have been here personally. Eight of them have had military service and a number of them were in Afghanistan. All of them hate me, for several different reasons, and they all have experience with explosives, which is why they worked on the first Moriarty case to begin with."

Sherlock stopped, giving John time to process the information. "You've narrowed down the suspects…" John whispered.

"Eight. Two of them are women, the remaining six men. It is statistically more likely for it to be a man but let's not rule the females out yet," he continued. "Now all we need is a description of this person and how he or she came in contact with your attacker," and with that he jumped elegantly of the counter and strode towards the moaning man sitting tied up to a chair in the sitting room.

The sound of harsh skin-on-skin contact rung through the room, and the attacker snapped to attention. A stream of sour curses was spilled from the attackers lips. "Shut up," Sherlock hissed. "Do you speak English?" Sherlock asked sternly.

"No English," the man said in English words but with a heavy accent.

"John, ask him how he met whoever gave him the task to get to our flat," John stayed by the sink, turning towards the voices and translated Sherlock's words.

"Who send you here? We know you were giving orders by a police officer. Who was it?"

A defiant huff was all he got. Then a loud shriek of pain and the man began to ramble in Dari: "Cheshem! He is called Cheshem! I met him in prison, he gave me this address, told me to kill a thief, that it was an honorable job!"

"Cheshem," John repeated. "He calls himself 'eye'." John told Sherlock, forcing himself to shift between languages, which for some reason he found to be very difficult. "I am no thief, and there is no officer in the yard by the name of Cheshem. Give me some answers or I'll have Sherlock break your arm beyond repair." His words came scarily easy to him, but he hardly had to lie. Sherlock would doubtless break this mans arm- possibly for a second time, considering the loud crack his body emitted when Sherlock wrenched him of John only minutes ago- should John ask it of him.

"Cheshem said he was a soldier, like me, fighting for honor. He said when he returned to his home two men had taken his job from him, his honor! He said this is where you live, and I must kill one of you or my brothers still in prison will be sentenced to death!"

"You cannot be sentenced to death in the UK." John countered.

"You can in Afghanistan," the attacker answered grimly.

Huh. Well, yes, you can. John turned to Sherlock. "We're looking for a man," he began. "He speaks Dari, is obsessed with his own honor, has been to at least one Afghani prison in his service and has had contact to several of their inmates. He has been in the war for a long time, or at least he got deep in it. His name 'Cheshem' was likely given to him by the locals, and it's not uncommon that soldiers stick to these names when back in the civil world, but it could be a sign of PTSD. Does that narrow it down?"

A smirk was evident in Sherlock's voice, "I see three options. Officer Harrison, Officer Dale and Officer Yeux."

"Age?"

"43, 34 and 29," Sherlock answered promptly.

"Was one of them the officer who helped me get to Baker Street?"  
"No, he was a newcomer. Spotless record, no military service."

Silence. Why was there so much silence? John felt his fingers twitch for a gun, and winced at the pain it caused him. He felt like shooting something, repeatedly and merciless. And perhaps that should worry him, but right now the only thing that had him unsettled was the lack of a target. Just as Sherlock was about to ask for another translation, police sirens began to emit from the street just outside. "We have to go." Sherlock said. John saw the shape of his arms rise above his head and rush down over the sitting man in front of him. A surprised yelp, and then he was unconscious once more. "Now he wont talk for a while."

"What? What are we doing? Are we running from the police again?" John asked, water still running over his sore hands. Sherlock yanked his hands away from the blissful cold and skillfully ran a soft bandage over the hurt areas. "Bandaging keeps air off the burn, reduces pain and protects blistered skin," Sherlock quoted him. "Now get to the ladder. We wont have time to explain the to Lestrade, and there is a very real chance that out madman is about to storm in here with him, and accusing an officer of orchestrating this mess in a room full of officers wont be taken lightly. Especially because they wont believe us."  
"Why won't they believe us?" was all John could think of.

"Because they're stupid, obviously."

"Obviously," John muttered. He was pushed towards Sherlock's bedroom, where he was guided out the window. John managed to grab the staircase by bringing his entire hand around the metal pipes and supporting himself by his wrists. It was less painful that using his fingers but it made him considerably slower. When John was half way down, he heard the police barging through the front door. Shouts and commands where send flying through the air, reaching Johns ears and had him look upwards. Where was Sherlock? Why was he not right above him, following him? John became aware that Gregory's voice wasn't among the shouts and a scenario formed in his head. Had the madman somehow convinced Sherlock and possibly himself had something to do with bombings? And had Gregory either not believed them or simply refused to arrest them? Or was he not informed? What wouldn't they think when they saw that man, tied up and seemingly beat up in their sitting room? Were they going to be arrested? _Where the hell is Sherlock?_

John bit his lip when he almost shouted out Sherlock's name. If Sherlock was to be arrested, his position on the ladder was at least hidden. But what good would that do? Without Sherlock he was just a clumsy blind man with severely burned hands. Should he go back and explain everything and hope for the best? Or is that what Sherlock is doing? John kept descanting the stairs, not knowing what else to do. Both feet on the ground, he looks up, just at the outlines of Sherlock's great curls peeks outs of the bedroom window above him.

"Keep going, get a cab!" Sherlock whispers only loud enough for John to hear. Sherlock turns abruptly; John hears more shouts and both men know that the officers have made it to Sherlock's floor.

For a moment, John feels left behind, even though he was the one who made it out of the window first. If Sherlock is grabbed now, with no sound proof of his theory, John if left to walk around in his semi-darkness until someone spots him. He feels very, very exposed, and his fingers are twitching more than ever for that stupid gun. John is faintly aware of his mind melding the shouts with screams of agony and the darkness created by his loss of sight is turned into a cold, starry desert night. Please, Sherlock. For the love of god, don't get caught.

**Will Sherlock be caught? Goddamn cliffhangers. Thank you for reading, and once again, don't be shy, leave a review and tell me anything you'd like.  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**So many things are happening! So much action and so much more to come! I hope you like it.**

**Chapter 10**

_Both feet on the ground, he looks up, just at the outlines of Sherlock's great curls peeks outs of the bedroom window above him._

"_Keep going, get a cab!" Sherlock whispers only loud enough for John to hear. Sherlock turns abruptly; John hears more shouts and both men know that the officers have made it to Sherlock's floor. _

_For a moment, John feels left behind, even though he was the one who made it out of the window first. If Sherlock is grabbed now, with no sound proof of his theory, John if left to walk around in his semi-darkness until someone spots him. He feels very, very exposed, and his fingers are twitching more than ever for that stupid gun. John is faintly aware of his mind melding the shouts with screams of agony and the darkness created by his loss of sight is turned into a cold, starry desert night. Please, Sherlock. For the love of god, don't get caught._

In a deserted village in a deserted dessert in Afghanistan, John had moved silently and painlessly through the cold starry night. His comrades were close by, a turn of his head and he saw their silhouettes clearly in the silver moonlight. There were no known enemy locations nearby, and everything seemed to be a comfortable quiet. The quiet meant safety and not death for once, and every soldier gliding through the village cherished it. Even so, they were all waiting for whatever would kill the silence this time. An unexpected gunshot perhaps? Hopefully not for another 20 miles or so. A loud crackling sound had everyone turning in John's direction. John felt the ground beneath him crack, like dried wood. He struggled to stay on his feet, and saw a fellow soldier drop his gun and run to him with an outstretched hand. He had barely stuck out his hand to grab onto his friend before a gaping hole opened beneath him. He had walked over the weak cover of an abandoned well, and was now hastily descending it. He expected to hear the cracking of bones when he hit the dry bottom, but instead his surprised scream was ended in the cold suffocating darkness of water. The glistering moon seemed to die out slowly as the dirty water snaked itself through every tough layer of body protection and clothing he had on him and effectively blinded him in the process. Somewhere in his brain he found the capacity to register that the dirty state of the well must have made the water undrinkable and that that must be the cause of the village being deserted. Only after making this discovery, he figured that the ridiculous amount of clothing and gear he had on him had gained him about thrice his body weight after being soaked. In short, he was sinking.

Suffocating, trapped and blind. And then the dull noise of something large being dumped in water, a strong grip over his shoulder and he was being pulled up. He gasped and blinked, confused and bruised. His comrades had fastened one of them to a rope and he had jumped to John's rescue, grabbed him and together his team managed to pull both men up by the rope. A second to recover, a few pats on the back and "Are you okay, doc?"

A second was all he got, a second of false safety and enemies were on them. Opening fire, screaming orders in the foreign language. They had heard first John, then his friends barking at each other to help him out.

Standing on the point between Baker Streets semi-secret back yard and the open street behind him, how could John not think of that Afghani desert night? When Sherlock emerges swiftly from the window, basically flies down the ladder and takes those confident strides towards him he knows they are both safe. For a second. Falsely. The ladder may be secret but Mrs. Hudson's back door leading to her flower pods just outside it was decidedly not. Three silhouettes are storming towards Sherlock before John can fully comprehend, or maybe accept, what is happening. "Go! John, go!" Is Sherlock last order, before he shifts his focus to the three approaching shadows. Run? John thinks. Alone? John's mind short-circuits for a moment, and everything goes black and freezes as he takes in Sherlock's words. Then everything bursts online once more and he registers the order. He complies without thought because it's all he can do.

Run? He thinks again. Where to? John turns on his heel and runs right across the street. His jacket has once again been lost, laying somewhere forgotten in the flat after his fight. His hands still both cold from the water and burning from the same thing screams at him when he clenches them in anger and, if he must be honest, in fear. Clotted blood begins running anew as he opens close to every scar he has managed to get himself the last couple of days. They burn at their center and has him freezing as the wet blood cools in the wind as he runs through the streets. He knows the roads well enough to know exactly where to put his feet. He knows full well he is running for his life, but Sherlock's might be on the line as well.

As he realizes that, as an officer, their madman could easily make Sherlock's death look like an accident- an act of self-defense maybe- and that he might be dead already, adrenalin manages to make him run twice his normal speed. Surprised yelps and gasps surround him as he runs, jumps and pushes his way through London's streets. So many dark evenings and nights spend with Sherlock running blindly after bad guys has him prepared to run for hours, and he is more than physically capable of doing so, but what for? He could easily outrun a car, disappearing into side streets and backyards, but where will he go? He must be half way across London when the headlights of every car seems to be pointed at him and paranoia is eating him up. A car honking at him has him spinning on his heel and run in the opposite direction but a familiar voice has him stop mid-stride and look over his shoulder.

"John! Doctor Watson!" Mycroft fucking Holmes, and about time. "Get in the car," he continues as he appeared soundlessly by John's side and John wills himself not to smack Mycroft away as he puts a helping hand on his elbow and leads him to his limousine. At least he had the decency not to take him by his hand like his brother seemed to have a habit of. John is breathing heavily, automatically putting his head between his knees to relax and control himself when safely seated in the fancy car.

Mycroft is rustling about as the limo sets into motion. Faster and faster, cars are honking around them as they drive through the remains of London. "I received a text message from Sherlock ordering me to find you. You're a hard man to find John Watson."

"That was the plan," John's voice was dry with heavy breathing but steady.

"Here, a little refresher," Mycroft said politely as he handed John a fancy crystal glass containing a clear liquid. He took it with a grateful nod and swallowed the content without question. It was neither alcohol nor water like he had expected. It was cool and slightly sweet but not sickening. He frowned at the empty glass and Mycroft explained at the sight, "Water for hydration, medicine for your wounds including your eyes, sugar for energy and a splash of vodka to keep it edible." Oh, so both alcohol and water then. His hands were shaking slightly.  
"I would make a comment about mixing medicine and alcohol but I've given up on you two. Also is this something you make often?" he questioned. Mycroft smiled and took the glass from John, stashing it away in some secret compartment hidden neatly underneath one of the seats. "No, but quick thinking is one of my many skills." Mycroft slid back in his seat and turned to John. "Now, first things first. Where is Sherlock?"

Sherlock had, of course, not filled Mycroft in on anything. Mycroft only knew they had been working with bombings, and that John needed an eye specialist on hold. Since Mycroft was both overprotective of Sherlock and his beloved country he _had _been following them closely, but John had to repeat everything Sherlock had blurted out in their kitchen. He elaborated whenever Mycroft asked him to and eventually Mycroft was updated with their current situation.

"So what to you plan on doing now?" Mycroft questioned as he leaned back in his seat, a deep frown forming on his forehead as a long string of scenarios played through his head. Sherlock dead, hurt, captured, arrested… They were all different variations of unsettling and displeasing.

"All I can think of is to look for evidence that proofs one of our three suspects to be the orchestrator of this mess. If we don't, I don't know how else to get Sherlock back. I have no idea where he is or what is happening to him but my best guess is that he has been framed as the madman and is being held up at the yard."  
"What do you propose? Do you have an address? I've got my driver driving us around the outskirts of London aimlessly for now, but as soon as we have a destination we'll be on our way." Mycroft explained calmly.

"Do you have a phone? Or a computer? Can you find the addresses on Officer Harrison, Dale and Yeux? Maybe they have something that could give them away in their homes?" John asked hopefully. Mycroft pulled out his phone and as he entered the code the screen lit up and John realized that the small rectangular light was the only thing he could make out in the dark. Turning his head, headlights and lampposts rushing by was once again all he could see.

"Is it getting dark already?"  
"Cloudy, it's only noon," Mycroft answered automatically. His head snapped up when he realized why John had asked. "How is your sight?"  
"It was getting better, but I can only tell thing apart in the light," he shook his head as if to brush it off and asked. "Got anything?"  
Mycroft looked back at his results. "No. Let me try something else. Louis! I need you to find the addresses to a Monsieur Harrison, Dale and Yeux!" Mycroft ordered the driver.

"Oui, Monsieur 'olmes!" came the reply in a thick French accent. Mycroft turned back to John.

"Even if all three addresses turn out to be in close proximity to each other I highly doubt we will have time to look through all of them. If we don't work fast this might evolve into a hostage situation," Mycroft said his voice professional and calm yet still stern and serious. "How can we know where to go?" John asked, out of ideas. Mycroft doesn't answer.

"Monsieur, I have got the addresses!" Louis the driver blurts into the silence.

French.

"Holy shit," John breathes. "I know where to go!"

Mycroft allows himself to look confused, "How? You haven't heard the addresses yet."  
"Yeux!" John almost yells, but not quite. Mycroft still jumps in his seat, and the driver eyes John in the rearview mirror.

"Yeux, monsieur?" Louis questions.

"Yes, Yeux! Take us to Officer Yeux's address, please!" he turns to Mycroft as the limousine takes a hard turn left and a long honk emits somewhere behind them.

"Cheshem means eyes, or eye, I told you that, didn't I? So does Yeux! It's French, but I'm sure you knew that already," John feels the adrenalin staring to pump again, slowly rebuilding his strength. He was getting ready to fight. Finally having a target was getting his very being combat-ready.

"I'm not entirely sure whether you informed me of this fact or not, but it seems you had it covered either way. I agree it seems like the most probable reality. Louis, get us there as fast as you can manage."  
"Within the legal limitation, monsieur?" the dutiful driver asks.

"When is it ever?" Mycroft smirks. The driver nods and John is pushed back in his seat as the fancy car shows off its powers. John vaguely wonders how the hell it's possible to drive that fast in London. Then again, he doesn't know exactly where they are or what kind of driver Louis is_ exactly_.

Just before their arrival, Mycroft unexpectedly pulls out a first aid kit from one of the hidden compartments and proceeds to redo John's bandages. His hands are burning painfully and John releases a relieved sigh when Mycroft applies a soothing creamy substance on the scorched skin before securing the coverings. John breathes his thanks and allows Mycroft to guide him out the car. "Do you have a gun?" John asked.

"Can you use it?" Mycroft questioned with a quirked eyebrow.

"Yes," John answers. He hoped for better lighting at some point doing their hunt for evidence. If not, he'd have no trust his remaining senses. Mycroft handed him a gun very similar to his own, and even with burned fingers John handled it expertly. He grit his teeth together when tightening his grip on its handle but said nothing. Mycroft looked him over once, either deciding John was fit enough to take on the task at hand or that he would not have the willpower to talk him out of it. Either way he nodded to his driver, the movement was returned and Louis drove away. Not far, but far enough not to be suspicious. "Give me a status report," John orders. Mycroft was not one to be ordered around, but he quickly deduces the cause of John's sudden change of character. He had become Captain Watson, gun at the ready, senses heightened, shoulders stiff and posture ready for battle. He gave in to John's request.

"This place is the perfect picture of a suspicious neighborhood. It seems to be a mostly abandoned residence complex. Not a place for an officer of the yard if you ask me," Mycroft moved closer to John, lowering his voice, "There are also two men guarding the front door, clearly armed. They have not yet spotted us. There seems to be a shattered window we might be able to enter further down this wall, but I wouldn't recommend it."  
"How can this not be enough evidence? What am I supposed to find in there?" John whispered frustrated.

"Two thugs looming about his front door will not prove him guilty, John." Mycroft answered calmly. "I suggest we look for papers. Written permissions to speak to or interview your Afghani friend, the suicide bombers or permission to enter Afghani prisons is what we hope to find."

John nodded. "Wait, us? You're going with me?"  
Mycroft scoffs. "Should I let you go alone? Blind and burned? Sherlock will have me hanged."

"Can you even fire a gun?" John whispers. He receives a smack over the head.

"Mind your manners, Doctor. I am, for your information, fully capable of firing and handling a firearm."

"Fine, sure, I you say so," John says with an eye roll.

"I am also more than capable of verifying documents such as papers used in both police and army forces-"

"Yes, Mycroft, I'm aware. Let's just be quick about this." John cut him off. Mycroft took the lead, John right at his heels. Up and through the window, feet firmly planted on a dusty carpet. John registered dim lights on either side of a short hallway. Mycroft lead the way up several stairs and stopped by the correct flat. "In here," he whispered. He wriggled the doorknob but found that it was locked. John took a step back. "We only have a few minutes."

He kicked with all his strength but the old door gave in easily. Later he might wonder if it had been foolish to believe no one to be home, but since there was no one in, probably not. He registered movement as the, most likely Afghani, men downstairs heard the disturbance John had made. Mycroft bolted inside, heading directly for a makeshift office. A mountain of papers messily placed on an unsteady wooden table became Mycroft's opponent. He sends the inadequate paperwork flying the room, hissing as time runs out.

John tries and fails not to think of all the missing data. How big is this complex? How long will it take to look through each floor looking for the cause of a suspicions noise? Will they be able to make it out undetected? Unlikely. Could the two of them win or even survive a firefight with the two guards? Are there more guards hiding somewhere in the complex? _Is Sherlock alive?_

"Quickly!" John hurried.

"I am trying! He is tactlessly unorganized for a man orchestrating a criminal scheme of this magnitude!" Mycroft hissed back. Footsteps nearby had John ready his gun. In the dim light of the hallways he would be able to make out the armed guards. "They're downstairs, Mycroft. We have to-"  
"Got it. Let's go." Mycroft grabbed John by his shirt and dragged him along. John loses his sense of direction. All he can manage is to have his gun at the ready. "There are no other stairs," Mycroft said breathlessly.

"What?" John whirled and aimed the way the came from as Mycroft halted them.  
"There are no other stairs!" he took a few breaths while collecting his thoughts. Mycroft sounds nothing like his usual collected self. They had been running for long enough to have both men breathing heavily. Angry voices were approaching.

"We have to jump!" John whispers.

"Jump?" Mycroft repeats incredulously. John grips his gun tightly and uses it to crash a window. In this brightly lit hallway the window seems to be nothing but a black square on the wall, but he hits his target nonetheless. "Do you even know what floor we are on?" Mycroft hisses. He refuses to believe that John could suggest such a thing and be in his right mind.

"Stick your head out and we'll know!" Mycroft reluctantly does as he is told, and only complies because his head is rushing with blood and adrenaline.

"This is madness, we're on the second floor, and there is a shed just below that reaches first floor that would cushion our fall but I don't- AH!" John knew he was going to pay for this.

He took a single breath and jumped after Mycroft who he had so easily pushed out the window. Several unsettling rumbles and cracks emitted beneath and around him as first Mycroft and then John himself crashed against the roof of the shed and tumbled to the ground. A string of both English and foreign curse words informed John that Mycroft's descent had not been entirely painless. John stumbled to Mycroft's side to help him stand. John gasps as he stands when his shoulder politely reminds him of its existence. "Argh!"

"- and that unthankful little- he has no idea what I put myself through for him! And you!" Mycroft pointed an accusing finger at John. John kept dragging Mycroft towards the road, where he hoped Louis would by some higher power know he had to be in a few moments for them to make a safe escape. "You are the one to constantly complain about Sherlock's recklessness and this is what you give me? No wonder the two of you fit together so perfectly! Argh- bloody- John! If I do not hear Sherlock thank me –out loud and very specifically- I will never forgive him for this!"

Mycroft's voice was hardly above a whisper, but hissed through clenched teeth and very un-gentleman like. He also had a limp and his body shook violently every time he put down his right foot. John felt cold mud on Mycroft's expensive suit as he had his arm around his waist to support the much taller man. The cold was nice against his burned skin. John was covered in mud himself as well, and though it felt soothing, though the dirt could lead to an infection both on John's hands and Mycroft's foot, ankle or leg. Whichever one he had bruised or broken.

"Mycroft, as far as I remember, you're the one constantly complaining about Sherlock's recklessness, and that is why we fit together! But I'm with you about the thanks, I'd like to hear him say that too."

Handguns being fired somewhere behind them was apparently Louis' queue to magically appearing around the nearest corner. The limo came to a screeching halt in front of the two muddied men and they tumbled in. "The yard, Louis, and for Gods sake hurry!"

"Oui, monsieur!" Louis says dutifully and steps on it. When the acceleration subsides John gets on his knees by Mycroft's right leg. "Can you turn up the lightning?"  
Mycroft groans and stretches his arm out to press a button. The entire length of the car is covered in odd shaped of darkness and yellow light until John can focus. His sight has become better in the light, he concludes. He can make out the dark, almost black, fabric on Mycroft's leg. "I'm going to take a look at it," he says gently. His world changes again. His entire state of mind does a swift 360 and his entire being morphs into a gentler, calmer version of his former transformation. Captain Watson has become Doctor Watson once again. Mycroft would comment on the dramatic change in John's body language and facial expression, not to mention the tone of his voice but thinks better of it as John proceeds to do as he said he would. As he eases up the fabric around Mycroft's right leg, a thick string of very red blood has Mycroft lean his head back and groan in disapproval.

"I'm afraid this could be broken, Mycroft." John wisely decides not to bother asking for forgiveness at the current moment.

"As long as we get Sherlock back safe I'll be fine. I also happen to know a Doctor who is more than capable of stitching me back together," John looked up and saw Mycroft had somewhat paled but still managed to sport one of his trademark grins. John grinned back and grabbed what he needed from the cars first aid kit to hold Mycroft's leg in place until he could get further treatment. Mycroft's leg was in no condition to support his leg, but John wondered if he would be able to keep him from walking when they arrived at their destination.

"The yard is in sight, Monsieur." Speaking of the devil.

"Good work, let's go John," Mycroft flew out the car almost before it came to a halt. And that decided it, then. He would not be able to keep Mycroft off his feet. John couldn't help but notice the incredible similarities Sherlock shared with his brother. How they could be so different and so alike was a mystery to John. He was at Mycroft's heels as he stormed the Yard. With his vision getting better by the moment, John thankfully did not need Mycroft's hand to make his way to Lestrade's office.

They were covered in mud, Mycroft's once stunning suit was in shreds and he was limping heavily. John wore no jacket, was shivering from head to toe from the cold mud and had numerous stripes of partially dried blood decorating his entire body. His one shoulder was hunched over awkwardly and his hands were still bandaged, but the once sterile fabric was spotted with mud and blood. They looked like something straight out of an old fashioned war movie. It surprised neither of them when an officer stopped them before they made it to Greg's office. Luckily they were immediately recognized despite their current state.

"What the hell is going on? What are you doing?" he asked then, eyes wide.

"We have to speak to Greg, is he in?" John talked fast.

"What? No, he's at Baker Street. And so should you be! They're looking for you everywhere-" the officer, and elderly man John noted, which meant he was decidedly not the officer they were looking for, was interrupted by Mycroft.

"I will speak to whoever has the most authority here while John proceeds to get to Baker Street and talk to the Detective Inspector. We will have this sorted out soon," John understood that Mycroft was creating a distraction. They had no way of knowing what was mean by 'They're looking for you everywhere', but it sounded unquestionably _not good_. He turned and left the building in long confident strides as quickly he could manage without running. He knew Mycroft held all evidence, but he had enough information to get Lestrade to at least listen.

Thankfully Louis was waiting with the Limo right where they had left him, and John jumped in and ordered him to get him to Baker Street immediately. He complied, and once again John found himself tumble out a car in front of his flat.

"There he is!" someone yells.

Fight or flight? There is a perfect getaway car right behind him, but is he supposed to run?

"John!" another millisecond and; "Thank God, you're alive!" That made John frown in puzzlement.

"What?" Greg Lestrade comes through the front door with a wide-eyed expression. "Where the hell have you been? I've been calling you like a madman, for gods sake I though you were dead!"  
"Dead? What are you talking about?" John questioned.

"Holy mother, you're in pieces! Medic! Can we get a darn medic over here?" Greg laid a supportive hand on John's elbow and led him through the front door.

"What? No, Greg I'm fine, I'm looking for Sherlock, did you arrest him?" total silence.

"Did you hit your head, John?"  
"What?" John shook said head and continued more sternly, "Greg, this is serious, Sherlock could be in danger! Have you got him or not?"  
"No!" Greg answered quickly. A pool of painfully cold water spread from his guts to his toes and he felt his face pale. "We thought the both of you had been kidnapped there for a second!"

Greg continues. "We received a anonymous call about screaming coming from your flat, and when we arrive we find and empty chair, rope and blood all over the place. I thought you'd been tortured by whoever the hell set off those bombs!"

John was silent as he took in the new information. The police was not after them; they did not believe them to be criminals. Good. It had not been police officers that had stormed through Mrs. Hudson's back door and attacked Sherlock. Sherlock had not been arrested and he did therefore not know of his location. Bad.

"John? Are you okay? _Where_ you tortured? Did you escape? John?" Greg's voice was growing increasingly worried.  
"Sherlock was kidnapped," he blurted. Greg stared at him. "But we weren't tortured. A man attacked me, Sherlock bound him to the chair and he hit him a couple of times, but he was not bleeding. And he was there when we left."

"And? Why did you leave?" Greg inquired.

"Sirens." John said. A grim picture was forming in his head. "Police sirens. Sherlock got caught. But they were not police officers." It was Yeux, he thought. Yeux has kidnapped Sherlock. He lured him out of his home and caught him defenseless. Sherlock would not fistfight an officer, he knew better, he would follow him willingly, and he had no other choice.

"John, if you do not explain what's going on to me right now I swear I'm knocking you out and bringing you to Bart's." Greg threatened half-heartedly.

"I need to find Sherlock," he whispered. "I need to find him _right now_."


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you so, so much for your support. You're my personal superheroes. I mean it!**

**I apologize for any misspelling etc.**

**Also I did the little picture that I finally added. I looked so sad without one.**

**Chapter 11**

"_Sirens." John said. A grim picture was forming in his head. "Police sirens. Sherlock got caught. But they were not police officers." It was Yeux, he thought. Yeux has kidnapped Sherlock. He lured him out of his home and caught him defenseless. Sherlock would not fistfight an officer, he knew better, he would follow him willingly, and he had no other choice. _

"_John, if you do not explain what's going on to me right now I swear I'm knocking you out and bringing you to Bart's." Greg threatened half-heartedly. _

"_I need to find Sherlock," he whispered. "I need to find him right now."_

Why was it not yet possible to travel from one point to another with the speed of light? Point A being John and point B being Sherlock? Where ever Sherlock might be? Hastily and out of breath, John filled Greg in on the whole mess. Greg nods and hums when needed, and as the story progresses his eyes grow more and more wary. "Okay-" Greg said when John had to catch his breath, "Suicide bomber in public twice, then in your flat. You're hurt and Sherlock binds a man to a chair. You run from the police. You want to prove Sherlock's innocence so you team up with Mycroft, shoves him out a window and, after leaving him at the station, head back here? And now the police you ran from is, what, not the police?" Greg sounded more confused than convinced. He had also not listened to John's explanation of his growing concern for Sherlock possible being kidnapped.

"Well, was it your officers?" he snapped, very much not having the time for Greg's slow mind. God, he was beginning to understand Sherlock _so well_!  
"Uh, no. My team has been with me since we got here. And when we got here no one was… here. Okay, so no. They were not policemen, but John-"

"Forget it Greg, I need to get inside. Get your men out, now." John demanded. Greg looked baffled, about to argue, but John gave him a deathly look and he complied. John climbed the ladder the police had brought and ran inside to inspect the room. The first thing John noted when he entered was the missing pieces of the wardrobe they kept in the sitting room, their coats to be precise. The one Sherlock had thrown over his shoulder was gone, Sherlock's elegant spare coat was not covering its usual spot behind the couch, and Sherlock's other nice jackets and coats he kept neatly stacked on a shelf was also nowhere to be seen. Odd. Other than John's blood-covered jacket, it was unlikely that it was the police that had removed the articles of clothes. John's eyes roamed the scenery. The nice wooden chair they had had the man bound to, was covered in clotting blood in nauseating amounts. It must have been from several donors.

Greg emerged moments later. "John. What are you planning? How are your eyes, even?" he began slowly, voice calm. "Greg, we have to find him."

"What?"  
"Sherlock. Every second counts. You know this."  
"John-" he sighed, "Okay, fine, just tell me what to do."  
John did not answer at once. After a moment he said, "Someone took my coat."  
"Excuse me?"  
"They took my coat. My phone is in my coat." Greg just stared at him, waiting for further rambling. John ignored his look at jumped for his computer, flipping in open and typing at its keys as soon as it was on.

"O-kay?" Greg looked over John's shoulder as he fiddled with computer. "Why not track Sherlock's phone?"  
"Untraceable," John said, "Don't ask me how, just is."

"Well, of course it is. Okay, so where do we go? Do we tell Mycroft?"  
"One thing at a time, Greg," A loud 'Ping' had John turn his full attention to the screen. An address John was unfamiliar with popped up on the screen. "There. We go there."  
"I know the area," John turned to him, "never been there though."

"That's good enough for me. Got a phone? We'll call Mycroft, he'll give us a ride."  
"I've got like seven cars just outside-," Greg began.

"Which could all possibly be traced by your mad officer. It's too dangerous, he'd know our exact location."  
"My-? Dangerous? He knows we're coming anyway, does he not?" Greg protested somewhat weakly, though he had already pulled out his phone to hand to John. John grabbed it, punched in Mycroft's number and headed for the ladder. The hidden one. "Where'ya going?"

"Just follow me," John grunted distractedly. He held the phone between his shoulder and ear as he swung his legs out Sherlock's' bedroom window. "John! What the bloody hell-!"

Greg ran to John, almost grabbing onto his wrists to haul him back inside as he notices the metal pipes. "That son of a-"  
"Mycroft! We need a ride, can you-"John said loudly, silencing Greg.  
"Way ahead of you good Doctor," Mycroft's voice resonated through phone. John turned his body on the ladder. He spotted the shiny black limousine on the street at the end of the backyard. John smiled crookedly. Of course the other Holmes would magically appear when he was needed. Again. "Greg, come on, Mycroft has got us a vehicle."

Gregory sputtered for a second, threw his hands up in surrender, and then followed with a frustrated sigh. He might have commended, 'When the hell did he become one of them?' under his breath, but John either didn't hear or didn't act on it. Down the ladder, crossing the grass, they hurried into the glamorous car. "Doctor, Detective Inspector," Mycroft greeted them. Mycroft nods at Louis, who starts driving immediately. "Address?" Mycroft inquires. Greg gives him the address and directions. It's not in London, somewhere just outside it. John is not interested. "Mycroft," he begins. Both men turn to him. "What did you find out? Anything?"

Greg turns to Mycroft. He'd like some answers as well, thank you very much.

"Yeux was seen accompanied by two unknown uniformed men. They took two police cars, Yeux in one by himself. No one stopped them, but it was considered out of place since no emergency calls had been made at the time. Essentially, Yeux tricked Sherlock, it seems, by luring him in a trap."  
"I figured that out already," John said. "Don't police cars have GPS's in them? Can they not be traced?"  
"Yes, but I had the police stalled, we'll have an advantage if we come unnoticed."

"You hope." Greg voiced. The two others stared at him. "What? It's true! How could you possibly know it's not an advantage to us to bring the police force into this? Or, you know, Mycroft could call the damn army?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the last comment, "I admit was do not know exactly what we are dealing with here, Detective Inspector, but should we be needing heavier guns, I have a team of very capable men at the ready."  
John and Greg frowned. "And they'll what? Just drop out of the sky when we call them?" Greg said disbelievingly.

"Essentially, yes." Mycroft answered matter-of-factly.

John huffed at the two. "Okay, great, so, Greg. Are you armed?"  
"I always am when visiting your flat, John." Greg deadpanned, looking annoyed. John just nodded. "Good. How long 'till we're there?"

"Un moment, monsieur!" Louis said, as he maneuvered the car elegantly around the corner of a gravely road. The vehicle came to a screeching halt outside what seemed to be an abandoned barn in the middle of a mile-wide grass field. "How fitting," Mycroft commented.

John, followed by Greg, Mycroft and Louis, got out the car whilst loading his gun. Luis stood by the opened driver's door. "Monsieur 'olmes?" he inquired. "Stay here for now, Louis; I'll call you if needed." Louis nods and proceeds to sit back in the car, watching the three men disappear in the dark. "I cannot describe how many reasons I have for us to NOT go in there." Greg said, gun in hand. "I have a reason for the opposite that trumps every single one of them, and that's Sherlock's life." John deadpans, not even looking him in the eye. Greg falls silent and Mycroft chuckles silently.

The door to the bar is unlocked, but a thick metal chain is attached to it. Had it been locked they would not have gotten in easily, though John likely would have kicked a hole in the rather ancient looking wooden wall. Greg handed John his fancy spare torchlight, and Mycroft sticks to John's side to see what he sees. Everything inside is surrounded by darkness and a thick layer of dust. There is no one to see. John spots a door, hidden behind a wall of hay. It's out of place, much newer than the rest of the interior, in shiny light steel. It's open, and as Greg and John point their torches at it, all they see is a long empty corridor. "Well, this isn't suspicions." Greg mumbles. Guns at the ready, they walk the corridor until they reach a room much larger than the barn. "Are we underground?" john asks quizzically. "There were hills on the field surrounding the barn. That might be our destination." Mycroft answers. Greg only hums in acknowledgement. Old chairs, planks, pieces of wood, an old worn axe and other odd things are piled up all around the room. It looks like a sort of storage, but its odd secret placement seems wasted on such poor items. Suddenly John spots the outlines of a long coat. "Sherlock!" he yells. He runs, gun pointed at the ground. He reaches out, gets a hold of his shoulder and-

White flashes before his eyes, and he is pushed back, but not quite knocked off his feet. He stumbles. He has rough fabric clutched in his hands. He blinks, gasping, opening his eyes. Greg and Mycroft have reached him, and are talking to him. He has warm wet fluid dripping from his chin. "Sherlock-"his eyes widen. "SHERL-"  
"It's not him!" Greg assures him. It exploded. The coat exploded! The coat? But where is Sherlock? "Where-?" John seems out of breath, the world is spinning on him, he is panicking.

"It's just paint, see" Greg lifts the reddish paint into John's field of sight. "It's a dummy, a trick."

"It's trick." John repeats numbly, still struggling to catch his breath. Sherlock just died and came back alive in three seconds. He needed a minute. "Okay," he says finally, "there might be more of those. They kidnapped quite a few of those coats. Including one of mine."

They nod in acknowledgement and move on. Sherlock must be close now. John debated whether it would be wise to start frantically screaming his name and just hope he'd come running to them. He kept quiet. His heart was going crazy, the whiteness of the explosion still lingering in his eyes. It was warm, damn warm in there. He couldn't see a thing without his torchlight. He had sticky paint all over him, and his trigger finger was burning of lack of use. He realized the madman might have deliberately put him in an environment and situation that send him mentally right back to Afghanistan. Bastard. They were moving down another corridor, when a door burst open. All three men aimed their guns. "Don't shoot!" the wonderful baritone voice yelled. John gasped and lowered his gun immediately. Sherlock. Blood running from his nose and ear, hand bound behind his back, but alive. Very much alive. "Sherlock-"  
"We have to go, he's on his way!" Sherlock's eyes looked wild. His skin was clammy, and his breathing was rapid. He had been drugged. Of course he had. "Sherlock are you all right?"

"Fine, let's go." He says quickly. A shot is fired and suddenly all hell is loose. Sherlock is running, Mycroft is freeing him, and everyone is dodging bullets. Then John feels something his leg, it's painful, but not like a bullet. He yelps, gaining his comrades' attention, and as he looks down he sees an odd shape sticking out of his thigh. It looks like an old fashioned poisonous dart. And then he loses his balance. And then his torchlight goes out. Or maybe he does. It's pitch black either way.

"John!"

**Dun-dun-dunnnnn! My deepest apologies for the late, late, late update. It just so happened that life came knocking on my door, throwing school in my face. It's horrible, living in reality, it really is. **

**I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Mariam. When you read this, I hope it makes you smile. You deserve a smile for each day you live, just like everyone else! : )**

**Look forward to emotion-packed, fluffiness in the following chapter!**


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